


We Could Be Heroes

by dynazty



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Language, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Summer, Tattoos, Underage Drinking, it's fun i promise, there are also fireworks!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynazty/pseuds/dynazty
Summary: Let the record state that Mickey Milkovich has no fucking clue how to take a compliment.(Or: on Ian's eighteenth birthday, Mandy and Lip take him to get his first legal tattoo at a tattoo parlor Mickey happens to work at. But things turn a corner when Mickey leaves an imprint both on top of Ian's skin, and underneath. AU)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Mandy Milkovich
Comments: 76
Kudos: 347





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> so, funny story; this fic was supposed to be a 5k word oneshot, and then it accidentally turned into the longest thing i've ever written and completed.
> 
> it's completely unbeta'd (other than a few spelling/grammar errors my best friend grammarly.com pointed out for me) so i want to apologize in advance for any outstanding mistakes. also, i'd like to extend my remorse for my gratuitous use of italics :)
> 
> full disclosure: this work means a lot to me, and even if it does get wordy or obscure in some places, it would mean the world for you to bear with me. feedback is super appreciated/encouraged, because not only does it help me grow as a writer tremendously, but i also love to hear your opinions!! they mean the world!! 
> 
> without further adieu, i hope you enjoy. stay safe & healthy out there <3
> 
> title comes from the song "heroes" by david bowie (1977)

“Since when did your brother know how to do art?”

“Since he got kicked out of his middle school drawing class and learned how to do it on his own as a massive ‘fuck you’ to his teacher.” Mandy’s voice echoes off the brick walls of the alley she is leading Lip and Ian down, heels clicking loudly against the cobbled pavement beneath their feet.

Lip laughs in disbelief, shoulder bumping against Ian’s buoyantly. “He did not.”

“He did!” Mandy insists, turning to glare at Lip as she walks backward. She is backlit by the row of streetlamps up ahead, the sleek leather jacket resting on her shoulders outlined by a yellowish light. “He had his heart set on going to art school if he raised enough money by the time he graduated.”

“Did he?” Ian speaks up, hands shoved in the pockets of his army-green jacket to hide them from the brisk evening air. He feels awkward and clunky as he walks next to his older brother, long legs itching to stride forward and outrun the cold. 

“What, go to art school?” Mandy shoots him an odd look. 

“Yeah.”

“Never graduated.” She spins back on her heel and falls into pace in between the two boys. “Dropped out after his sophomore year and did some time in juvie.” 

Lip whistles through his teeth, a sharp sound that cuts through the dark like a knife. “Yikes. And now he’s a tattoo artist?”

Mandy smiles wryly, chin quirking up. “A damn good one. Take a left up here.” 

Together, the group of three emerges from the alley and turns left onto a busy street lined with depleted thrift stores and restaurants. There are almost no cars on the road -- surprising for a Friday night -- and the white light of the moon is sheltered behind a thick blockade of clouds. 

The sidewalk is littered with small pockets of water pooling around dips in the cement and underneath gutters, a distinct sign that the rainy spring season is coming to a tentative close. A few blocks in front of them, Ian can see the flickering lights of a movie theater marquee reflecting in the drain-off. 

“The parlor is on top of a sports bar just past the theater,” Mandy says, lifting her arm to point down the block, “you can’t miss it. Sketchiest looking place on the whole street.”

“Perfect.” Lip grins then swivels his shoulders to look across Mandy and address his younger brother. “You have any idea what you’re gonna get, birthday boy?”

Ian shrugs. “Not yet, but I know I want it back here.” He pulls a hand out of his pocket and rubs the base of his neck between his shoulder blades, hands icy against his skin.

“Good choice,” Mandy nods approvingly, dark bangs crisscrossing her forehead as a slight breeze knocks into them. “It shouldn’t hurt too bad if it’s below your actual neck, but it’ll probably pinch. And don’t worry about coming up with a design right away, Mickey’s got loads of samples he can show you.”

“Cool,” Ian gives her a modest smile. 

If someone told Ian a week ago that he would be walking into a tattoo parlor with his brother and best friend on the night of his eighteenth birthday, he probably would have believed them. For months, Mandy had hinted at the fact that she wanted to do something bold for Ian’s birthday, something that requires a real ID. (She doesn’t have any moral issues in using a fake one, but she explained to Ian that “it’s the sentiment that counts” when it comes to eighteenth-birthday shenanigans.) 

What’s truly unbelievable is the fact that Ian is going through with it. 

It’s not like he’s scared to get a tattoo. He’s never had a problem with needles or anything, and he’s even gotten one tattoo before, back during the summer of his freshman year when he’d received his first fake ID. He was almost black-out-drunk when he got it, so he doesn’t remember much about the pain; he does remember when it got infected almost two days later, and he had to go back to the parlor and get it fixed. He’d also gotten a refund.

But for some reason, none of this unsettles him, or even scares him into never getting another tattoo ever again. The biggest difference between that scenario and this one is the fact that he got inked by a forty-something-year-old licensed tattoo artist; not by Mandy Milkovich’s cryptic older brother. 

Ian doesn’t know much about him, other than that he ran away from home when he was fifteen and took Mandy with him. It happened right around the time Ian had first met Mandy in junior high, and he remembers letting her crash at his place a few nights in a row because her brother hadn’t found them a real place to stay yet. They sorted it out almost two months later and returned to their house immediately after their father was carted to prison for some drug-related crime, going on with life like nothing had happened. 

What really creeped Ian out was that, even when Mandy was staying with him, Ian never saw her brother face-to-face. In the very few family photos she showed him, Mickey looked a bit like an escaped convict that could snap someone’s neck in half using nothing but a stern glare (and judging from Mandy’s many stories from their time living on the street, he probably has snapped someone’s neck before.) Ian wouldn’t put it past any Milkovich. 

In his opinion, Mandy’s brother is scarier than a needle will ever be. 

“So, if Mickey’s a certified tattoo artist,” Lip curtails Ian’s train of thought, “does that mean he’s the only Milkovich to ever take up a hobby that doesn’t involve ski masks or assault rifles?”

“Fuck you,” Mandy replies instantly, “I have plenty of normal hobbies.”

Ian scoffs playfully. “Really? Name one.”

“Fourth grade,” she says with a smug look. She has to tilt her head back quite a bit in order to meet Ian’s eyes. “I was a Girl Scout. Green sash and everything.”

“You got booted after a week because you called another girl a cunt,” Ian points out. 

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Okay, well even if I did, she probably deserved it.”

“A fourth-grade girl? Cunt?”

“Shut up.”

“Is this the place?” Lip interrupts, stopping in front of a seedy building tucked between a dilapidated Quiznos and a taqueria that looks like it’s been closed since the 90s. It’s a short building that has a row of apartments stacked on top of a frayed grey awning, flapping and creaking in the wind. 

A sign over the entrance advertises the pub in chipped green letters, but they are so faded that the name is impossible to translate. Low country music pours out from the half-open door, and the smell of beer and tonic drapes around the entrance like a curtain. 

“This is it, but the entrance to the parlor is around the side.” Mandy hooks her arm with Ian’s elbow and tugs him forward. 

A smaller sign juts out from the side of the building with the words “ _Bridgeport Tattoo and Piercing Studio_ ” scrawling across in loopy lettering. A red arrow beneath the sign points towards a dingy wood staircase that is squished awkwardly between the bar and the taqueria. Ian’s nerves are not calmed in the least.

“Jesus, do people even know this place exists?” Lip flicks the sign with his pointer finger as they walk past. “It’s a little obscure.”

“There aren’t a lot of walk-ins if that’s what you’re asking,” Mandy says. “Customers usually make appointments a few days before they come in.”

“Do we have an appointment?” Ian asks, brow furrowing. 

“No, but we don’t need one. We’ve got me, and I qualify for employee benefits.” She squeezes his arm and flashes her teeth 

“But you’re not an employee,” Lip says.

“And?”

Ian laughs, and Mandy pulls him to the base of the staircase. The boards creak ominously and sag beneath their feet as they step up, only providing Ian with more anxious collateral. 

“Has anyone ever been murdered here before?” Lip asks a few steps behind Ian.

“Probably, but not that I know of,” Mandy snorts over her shoulder. “Why?”

“Just seems like a good place for a crime scene. Plus, I wouldn’t dismiss homicide as another common Milkovich hobby.”

“You’re an ass,” Mandy informs him as they get to the top.

There is a small balcony overlooking a parking lot behind the building, and a couple of pots of dead plants are scattered at the base of the railing. A dim outdoor sconce lights up a battered screen door with a “ _We’re Open!_ ” sign hanging off the handle. 

Mandy hauls the door open without a flicker of doubt and struts inside like she owns the place. Ian slides in after her, followed closely by Lip, who lets the screen slam shut behind him. 

“Welcome,” Mandy says with a hint of sarcasm, “and excuse the mess -- my brother doesn’t really know the definition of ‘cleanliness’.”

To Ian’s minimal surprise, there is no one in the parlor but them. It is faintly lit and smells vaguely like a broken ink cartridge; some loud punk song is reverberating from one of the back rooms behind a long black counter, making the floors vibrate under the soles of his shoes. 

“You guys can sit over there,” Mandy says, gesturing to a clump of bruised sofas pushed near the doorway, mimicking a feeble waiting room. Sitting adjacently is a line of dentist-esque black leather chairs that have large LED lights installed over them. 

Despite all this, the thing that catches Ian’s eye first are the rows upon rows of framed designs that cover every square inch of the walls, making the room feel less like a tattoo parlor and more like an art gallery. It’s like looking at a map of the world, each design its own little country brimmed with detail and meticulous color. They’re hypnotizing at first glance, the olive green and inky black patterns blending together into a sea of mesmerising abstraction, making Ian’s feet subconsciously step closer so he can get a better look. 

Mandy, disregarding the decor entirely, brushes past Ian and struts up to the slim counter. “Mickey!” 

There is no response.

“Mickey, you’ve got customers!” She shouts towards one of the back rooms, projecting her voice over the pulsating music.

While Lip makes himself comfortable on one of the sofas, Ian draws even closer to the wall, enraptured by the dozens of sketches and drawings hanging inches from his face. Each one is framed, and the glass almost feels like a barrier; Ian wants to reach out and touch the designs, trace his finger along the winding black lines and pools of ink.

“Assface, I know you’re back there!” Mandy yells.

A loud ‘thump’ from one of the rooms behind the counter snaps Ian out of his daze, but he can still see some of the patterns on the back of his eyelids when he blinks and turns around. 

“We’re fuckin’ closed!” A gruff voice shouts back. 

Mandy sighs then shoots an apologetic look over her shoulder at Ian, who is now standing at full attention. “Sorry, he’s a dick.” She turns back. “MICKEY!” 

There is another crash, and the punk music is suddenly shut off. One of the doors behind the counter swings open, and a man who Ian can only assume to be Mickey Milkovich appears on the threshold. 

“We’re closed,” the man repeats, a scowl dominating his features. 

He’s shorter than Ian expected -- a lot shorter, actually. He’s wearing nothing but a black tank top and poor-fitting jeans, displaying two extremely pale arms that seem like they’ve never been touched by ink. This is startling, given that every tattoo artist Ian’s ever seen has been riddled with tattoos on every part of their body. Mickey’s hair spills over his forehead like it’s an afterthought, unwashed and sticking up in a couple of different directions, and his eyes are narrowed into harsh slits as he takes in the scene in front of him. 

It strikes Ian abruptly how alike he and Mandy look; they have the same papery skin and the same crow-black hair that Ian always thought made Mandy so unique. Their faces are also noticeably similar, with their identical sharp noses and intense blue eyes mowing each other down in an unspoken staring contest. It isn’t very hard to tell that they come from the same DNA. 

“No, you’re not closed.” Mandy leans forward on the counter, face schooled into a cold expression that Ian isn’t used to seeing on her. It’s probably reserved just for her siblings, kind of like Fiona’s ‘I’m not angry I’m just disappointed’ look that every Gallagher has been the recipient of at some point. “First off,” Mandy starts, “you don’t close until ten on weekends. And second, it’s my best friend’s eighteenth birthday and I promised I’d take him to get his first tattoo.”

“First legal tattoo,” Ian corrects from where he stands near the entrance, feet glued to the floor. 

Mandy’s brother’s gaze slides from her to Ian, locking him in with a scrutinizing stare that is very, very blue. All of a sudden, Ian is having trouble finding his breath. 

“Okay,” Mickey drawls, “so why the fuck did you come here?”

Mandy punches him in the shoulder. Not lightly. “He wants a tattoo from you, dickwad.”

“Why?”

Ian squirms a little under Mickey’s unwavering gaze. He hasn’t even bothered to glance at Lip yet, who is sitting just as timidly in Ian’s peripheral vision.

“Because I told him how great of an artist you are, and that we’d get a discount because I’m your sister and I help run this place,” Mandy snaps. “Think you can fit one more client into your extremely busy schedule before I regret complimenting you?” 

He says nothing, finally tearing his eyes away from Ian to glower in Lips direction, then back at his sister. No one says anything, and Ian feels immensely uncomfortable.

In an attempt to break the thick layer of tension, he swallows his tension and steps forward, holding out his hand over the counter. “Um, hi, I’m Ian. Gallagher.”

“Mickey.” Mandy’s brother disregards Ian’s hand in favor of looking tersely over his shoulder at Lip. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Phillip, brother of the birthday boy,” Lip stands up, brushing his hands against his thighs as if he’s casually dusting himself off. “I go by Lip, though.”

Mickey makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a half-assed laugh. “Not Phil?” 

Lip remains unphased -- he’s used to this. “I’ll go by Phil when I’m a burnt-out eighty-year-old living in a nursing home,” he responds levelly. 

“Fair enough.”

“So, are you gonna do it?” Mandy prods Mickey’s arm.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “As long as he pays for it, I don’t care.” 

Ian smiles tightly, and he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Great.”

The dark-haired man sidles out from behind the counter and begins to walk over to one of the leather armchairs, rubbing his hands together as he goes. “You got a design in mind?” The question is tossed at Ian lazily. 

“Uh,” Ian fumbles to catch it, shifting his feet. “No, not really.” 

Mickey doesn’t seem to like this answer. He launches a dirty look in Ian’s direction, hands stilling. “Fucking hell,” he sighs noisily. “Look at the wall, pick out something pretty. But make it quick, I don’t got all night.”

Ian gulps down the fragments of a reply and immediately turns to the wall closest to him, relieved to have an excuse to tear himself out of the shorter man’s line of fire. 

A set of black and white comic book characters stare back at him from the wall, Spiderman crouching down right in the middle and looking straight through Ian with narrowed blue eyes. Ian frowns and shifts to another section a few feet over, one that is decorated with an array of different colored birds and tree branches that intertwine with each other over the pages. 

“What about a flower?” Lip asks from across the room. Ian glances over to see his brother squinting at a row of magnified daffodils on the opposite wall, bent at the waist. “You could get a daisy chain up the back of your neck or something. Maybe a big old sunflower.”

Ian makes a face and looks away. “I’ll pass.”

“The most popular ones are on the wall behind the desk,” Mickey says, waving a slack hand towards the counter. “Lot’s of minimalistic shit if you’re into that.” 

Mandy places a hand on Ian’s back, making him jump a little, then guides him away from the wall of birds in the direction of Mickey’s wave. “I think you should get something sentimental,” she states, dropping her hand and propping her elbows on the edge of the countertop as she surveys the wall. “Like, something that reminds you of your family, or something.”

“Like what?” Ian asks, scanning the wall. His eyes fall on a detailed outline of a lion mid-roar, and his nose scrunches. 

“You could get a herd of rats running up your spine,” Lip pipes up sarcastically. “That represents our family pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Or you could get a tree, each branch with one of your siblings’ names,” Mandy says more seriously while pointing a long, painted fingernail at a drawing of an oak tree. 

“You could be cliche and get a butterfly or a key. Coeds love those on their ankles and wrists, I see them all the time.”

“This compass looks kinda cool. Ooh, or that bow and arrow.”

Ian runs a hand through his hair, then squeezes his fingers together at the back of his head as Lip and Mandy throw out more suggestions, each one a little more ridiculous than the last. _This is fucking stressful_ , he thinks; he doesn’t remember his last tattoo being so stressful. He doesn’t even remember how he chose his last tattoo so quickly without a shadow of a doubt. 

Cautiously, his gaze slides over to Mickey, who is now sitting idly on one of the leather chairs holding a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other while his feet swing back and forth. 

“You drew all these?” Ian asks. 

Mickey doesn't look up, propping the cigarette in his mouth and flicking the lighter on, one hand cupping the flame protectively. “Yep.” 

“Jesus,” Ian breathes. 

“What about a crushed beer can?” Lip calls, still attempting to brainstorm. “You could dedicate it to Frank if you want.”

Ian spins and glares at his brother. “I am not getting anything that has to do with Frank.” 

“Monica, then? A tab of LSD might look kinda dope.”

“Fuck off!” 

Mandy, arms folded and hips perked sideways, recaptures Ian’s attention. “What do you think, for real? Do you like any of them?”

Ian, feeling small even though he’s the tallest one in the room, slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocks back on the balls of his feet. “I like all of them,” he admits, knowing very well that this statement will not help their cause.

However, his words cause Mickey to finally look up, a trail of smoke circling his head and getting caught in the glare of the LED lights. He looks puzzled. 

“If you like all of them, then just close your eyes, spin around a few times, and point at one,” he says rigidly, one hand fidgeting with the flint of the lighter. “Pin the tail on the donkey. It’s not that hard.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Mandy insists, grabbing Ian’s arm again and tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “Choose something meaningful. You’re gonna be stuck with it forever, so it might as well be something you like.”

Forever is not a concept Ian is very familiar with. 

When he was little, it took him years to understand what object permanence was, longer than Debbie, Carl, and even Liam took. When he eventually did grasp it well into his matured childhood, it didn’t dampen his fear that things would disappear behind his back, not saying goodbye and not looking to return anytime soon. He was always afraid of things leaving -- people leaving. A therapist would place the blame on Monica -- Ian places it on himself.

“I don’t know,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck and dropping his eyes to the floorboards. “There are too many options.”

“What if you got a piercing instead of a tattoo?” Lip is now leaning over the counter, peering down at a tray of multi-colored studs with a smirk playing on his lips. “You could get one of these sparkly ones in your nose. Ooh, or maybe your belly button. That would be a conversation starter.” 

“No, we don’t do piercings after seven p.m.,” Mickey shuts him down, exhaling a line of smoke. 

“Is Svet not here?” Mandy asks, unfolding her arms and rerouting them to her hips. 

Mickey wrinkles his nose. “No, Svet’s not fuckin’ here, dumbfuck, she’s home with Yev. And even if she was here, I’m not about to let her pierce Carrot Top’s belly button.”

Ian feels some blood rush to the tips of his ears. _Carrot Top?_

Wordlessly, he catches Lip’s gaze and attempts to convey his near-panic in trying to choose a design. Lip, knowing first hand how quickly Ian can get overwhelmed with things like this, comes to his rescue and sidles up next to Mandy.

“How about this,” he suggests, bringing a solid hand to his brother’s shoulder. Ian can feel the unspoken _‘I got you’_ weighed in his palm, and he’s grateful. “Mandy and I can run down to the convenience store across the street and pick up a few Coronas. You and Mickey can figure out what’s best for you without our input, that way you can make a decision on your own. Sound good?”

Wait, no. _No no no._

Mandy shrugs. “Fine with me.”

Lip looks at Ian expectantly, eyebrows arched in question. 

This is not what Ian meant. Being left alone with Mickey Milkovich so they can pick out tattoo designs together is not what he intended to have happen. If that happens, he might do something stupid. No, scratch that, it’s fucking inevitable that he’ll do something stupid. 

But now Lip, Mandy, and Mickey himself are all looking at Ian, waiting for an answer. 

He chews on the inside of his lip, worrying away the skin, then slumps his shoulders in imminent defeat. “Yeah, okay, whatever. But grab some Camels, too?”

Lip’s mouth quirks up, then he claps him on the shoulder. “Anything for you, bud. We’ll be back in a few, yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Mandy grabs her bag, pops up on her tiptoes to plant a reassuring peck on Ian’s cheek, then turns to her brother. “Be nice to him or I’ll cut your throat out,” she threatens, the iciness in her voice juxtaposing her cheerful expression.

Mickey gives her the finger. 

Lip grabs hold of Mandy’s arm and hauls her over to the entrance. “Don’t pick anything stupid!” he calls as a last word of advice, letting the screen door swing closed behind him with a ‘bang’.

All of a sudden, it’s quiet. 

Ian lets his eyes drift back in Mickey’s direction, hands clenching uncomfortably in his pockets. “Um,” he starts, trying to stomp down the blood that has pooled in his cheeks. 

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. He has very, very intense eyebrows. “So, you really have nothing in mind?”

Ian shakes his head a little, face hot. “I didn’t think about it before getting here.”

“Why not?” 

“Um,” Ian flounders, “I guess it was kind of a surprise we actually came. That I’m going through with this.”

“This is her birthday present to you?” Mickey asks, hopping down from his spot on the leather chair, cigarette hanging limply between his sallow lips; Ian has to force himself to stop looking at them. 

“Something like that,” he says.

“Shit,” Mickey laughs, brittle and curt. “She’s a good friend, huh?”

Ian shrugs again. It seems to be the only thing he can do in the presence of the older boy. “To me, yeah.” 

“Right.” 

In one swift motion, Mickey digs into his pocket and pulls out a nearly-empty box of Marlboros. Unexpectedly, he holds the box out to Ian, lid hanging open to reveal exactly three cigarettes. 

Ian eyes them hesitantly, then decides it’s more dangerous to refuse than to accept. He warily plucks one out and props it between two fingers. 

“Got a light?” he asks, already knowing the answer. Mickey pulls it from his other pocket, flicks it on, then holds it to Ian’s fingers, letting the tip catch and begin to eat away at the papery stick. 

“Thanks.”

Full disclosure, Ian hasn’t smoked a cigarette recreationally since his freshman year, back before he sobered up about ROTC and realized how hard it was to juggle a nicotine addiction and an everyday high-intensity workout routine. Sure, he’s done some weed with Lip here and there, but he hasn’t smoked for the sake of smoking in a surprisingly long time. And yet, for some reason, he feels confident in taking up Mickey’s offer; it almost feels like a reward for over three years of nonstop training, and Ian thinks he deserves it. Plus, it’s his birthday.

However, given how long it’s been since his last hit, he breaks into a small coughing fit in the middle of his first inhale. 

Mickey snorts, eyes flashing with amusement. “Jesus, Carrot Top. This your first time?”

“No,” Ian chokes out, slapping his chest as if it will help his lungs calm down. “Fuck you.”

“Buy me dinner first?”

These words do little to help Ian regain his composure. He coughs louder. 

“It’s just been a while,” he explains after catching his breath, proceeding to tap off some of the ash using the edge of the countertop. “Forgot how shitty tobacco tastes.”

“Well, bon appétit.” Mickey is smirking unabashedly. A second later, he drops what’s left of his cigarette and snubs it out with the toe of his shoe; Ian notices that he’s wearing dirty, eggshell-colored Chucks. “Are we gonna do this or what?”

Ian blinks. The smoke is hurting his eyes just a little. “Uh?”

“Your tattoo, stupid.”

“Oh.” He feels a blush beginning to claw at his neck. What the fuck is wrong with him? “Right.”

“You said earlier that this isn’t your first time,” Mickey is rubbing his hands together again -- Ian can’t tell if he’s doing it because they’re cold, or if it’s some kind of nervous tick. 

“Yeah, uh, it’s not,” Ian clarifies after blowing out a small tendril of smoke from the side of his mouth. “I got one a few years ago. Fake ID.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Mickey asks, arms enveloping across his chest. He can’t seem to stop fidgeting, and Ian doesn’t blame him. “Might make this whole process a little easier if I know what you like.”

Bad idea. Very, very bad idea. 

“Um,” Ian shifts his weight from one foot to the other tersely. He can’t just say no, can he? If he says no, the situation will be a trillion times more awkward. But it will also be more awkward if he says yes. _Fuck._ “Yeah,” he agrees reluctantly, going against his better judgment, “whatever. It’s a little outdated, though.”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw up. “Can I see it?”

“Yeah.” Completely losing track of all rationale, Ian lodges his cigarette between his lips and shrugs his jacket off so it lands at his ankles. He uncomfortably lifts one side of his t-shirt, exposing a large patch of skin above his waist and showcasing a drawing of a bald eagle gripping onto a long, old-fashioned musket. It stretches across his ribcage like an ink-colored bruise, faded and rusty, a sore sight to look at. 

Ian’s never had major body image issues before, but for some reason, the laugh Mickey barks out as soon as his shirt is raised makes him feel wildly insecure. He wants to shut himself in a metal box and never come out just so he doesn’t have to witness the myriad of emotions that ripple across the other boy’s face. Mickey crouches a little to get a closer look, expression lit up with malice.

“Shit, man,” he laughs, “I guess this means you’re either a serious army buff or a white supremacist.”

“It’s outdated,” Ian reminds him, hastily dropping the hem of his shirt and pulling it back over his belt. “And I’m not a white supremacist, I got it when I was fifteen.”

“An army buff at fifteen?” 

“ROTC kid,” he corrects, though he acknowledges in his head that they’re basically the same thing. ‘Army buff’ just sounds a little too vulgar in his opinion no matter how much truth it rings. “I’ve wanted to enlist since I was eleven.”

Mickey busts out another dubious laugh as Ian bends over to retrieve his jacket. “You’re kidding! I didn’t even know how to tie my fuckin’ shoes when I was eleven.”

“That’s weird,” Ian tells him tentatively, straightening back up. “And a little sad.”

The other man shrugs indifferently. “I was a late bloomer.” 

Ian feels a warped smile begin to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Eleven years old? Is that, what, fifth grade?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Fifth grade and you didn’t know how to tie your shoes?”

“You might wanna shut the fuck up now,” Mickey warns, but there’s no real malice in his voice. 

Ian’s fully grinning now, the edge of the counter digging into his lower back as he leans against it. The uneasiness in his stomach evaporates in seconds, and he feels the playful hands of _joie de vivre_ grab at his brain. 

He won't deny it; he’s always enjoyed wriggling under the skin of assholes, and even though Mickey hasn’t proven to be anything more than a dirty mouth, it won’t deter Ian from poking fun at his ‘tough-guy’ act. 

From what Mandy’s told him, Mickey was an asshole the minute he popped out of his mother’s womb, and he only takes this with a small grain of salt given that Mandy is younger than her brother by a handful of years. Still, the idea of wiping that intentionally smug look from his face makes Ian giddy.

“So,” Mickey changes the subject, some of the coldness draining from his gaze as he speaks. “You’ve got a dumbass bird with a rifle on your ribs. D’you want a new one similar to that? I could do a pigeon wearing one of those fuckin’ army helmets or something.”

“No, I don’t want a similar one,” Ian retorts, shaking out his cigarette he’s almost forgotten he’s holding and watches some of the ash land on his shoes. “Something completely different, actually. You could even cross that one out with a giant ‘X’ and I’d be satisfied.” 

“Okay, what if I wrote ‘make love not war’ across your forehead?”

“Perfect.” Ian takes a long drag. 

Mickey uncrosses his arms, a strangely vulnerable move. “Listen,” he says seriously, “if it makes you feel any better, I’ve got a shitty tattoo from when I was in high school, too.” 

Ian doesn’t believe him. In fact, Ian can’t spot any visible tattoos on Mickey’s skin despite the fact that he has zero sleeves.“Shittier than an eagle holding a rifle?”

“Much shittier.” His hands curl into fists and he starts to raise them, and Ian immediately flinches, thinking he’s about to get clocked; it turns out that Mickey’s just trying to brandish his knuckles. 

Ian laughs out loud when he fully processes what the other boy is showing him. 

“Fuck U-Up? You’re screwing with me.” 

“Nope,” Mickey un-clenches his fists, then holds them out in front of himself as if he’s seeing them for the first time. “Did them myself with my cousin’s old stick n’ poke kit. They’ve gotten infected like nine times.” 

“Jesus,” Ian grips the edge of the counter to make sure he doesn’t double over. “You’re right, that’s way shittier than mine.” 

“Okay, Colonel Sanders, don’t get all high and mighty on me.” Sarcasm slips quickly back into Mickey’s tone, and he rubs at his fingers while he begins to walk back towards the leather chairs. “I’m gonna be sticking a needle into you pretty soon and I could do serious damage if I wanted.”

He has a good point. Ian scrambles to compose himself, then follows Mickey over to an armchair. “Is this where you do it?”

“Yep,” Mickey runs a finger down the upholstery. “You just lie down here and I dig into you with all my scary tools. Fun for everyone.”

“How long does it take, usually?” 

“Depends on how elaborate the design is,” he says. “Speaking of which, are you planning on choosing one? Your armed birdie didn’t exactly help our case.” He looks expectant, and Ian’s back to being scared. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he tries to refocus, but it’s hard with the other boy’s eyes trained on him. They’re very, very blue.

“We should start soon if you want something detailed, otherwise we’ll be here till midnight.” It sounds like a warning, or maybe an ultimatum. Ian can’t tell. 

“Couldn’t you just pick one for me?” he asks, blowing out some smoke through his nose. “A design, I mean. Make it a surprise. Don’t people do that stuff all the time?”

“They do,” Mickey says slowly, “But they give me a pretty large frame of reference so I don’t screw them over too bad,” 

“So, let’s do that,” Ian replies swiftly. “Less pressure.”

“For you, maybe,” Mickey counters him with a glare, but doesn’t refuse.“Is there anything else in your life that’s interesting other than the army? Something I could work with? If not, I might just use the pigeon idea and call it a day.”

“Other than my rabid family, there’s not much.” This is a blunt lie on Ian’s part -- his life is plenty interesting, but not in ways he wants to explain to a guy he just met. 

“Pop culture? Artists you like, music you’re into? Anything?”

“Not really.” Truthfully, Ian didn’t have time for pop culture growing up, and he still doesn’t pay attention enough to know what is or isn’t trendy; other than the occasional club playlist or radio station, he doesn’t listen to much music. Art is an absolute no unless the smudged finger paintings Liam sticks on the refrigerator door once a week count. 

“Movies, TV shows? Hell, books?” 

Ian pauses. Almost every book he’s fully finished has been school-mandated or school-recommended. He used to love reading, but the interest was stunted almost as soon as he hit high school and had to start psychoanalyzing every word of every sentence. Movies, on the other hand, were a little easier to integrate into his schedule. 

“Um,” he starts, “I watched _Bloodsport_ a lot during middle school?”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Van Damme? That’s all you got?” 

“Pretty much.” Ian is trying very hard not to cringe at himself. It’s not that he doesn’t know any other movies, he just doesn’t recall liking a majority of the ones he’s seen. He definitely isn’t going to admit that he’s watched _Golden Girls_ on four separate occasions because of his sisters. 

“You’re boring,” Mickey decides out loud. “Fuck Van Damme. Why is Mandy even friends with you?”

“Bad taste in men,” Ian supplies. Mickey doesn’t disagree. Ian’s legs feel like jelly, and he perches stiffly on the edge of the armchair to avoid his knees buckling. “Sorry I don’t have a very exciting resume. I didn’t exactly have a refined childhood.”

Mickey shakes his head, dismissing the excuse. “Well I didn’t either but I’m not half as boring as you are.”

Ian’s mouth moves faster than his brain. “Prove it.” 

He doesn’t know why, but he challenges Mickey like they’re about to flip a coin or place a bet. The leather cushioning of the armchair is rough against the heels of his palms as he reclines back. 

“How, exactly?” Ian thinks that if Mickey raises his eyebrows any further they’ll blast off like Apollo 11. 

Instead of answering right away, Ian attempts nonchalance by taking a long hit from the cigarette between his fingers. He feels the smoke percolate in the back of his throat and creep down his chest, goosebumps tickling the back of his shoulders. 

“Do your job,” he says, finally, breathing out steadily and peering at the other man through his eyelashes. “Draw me something I’m missing. Something cultured.”

Mickey opens his mouth, ready to shoot the idea down, then seems to do a double-take in his head. It seems that Ian has snagged his full attention. “Anything?” he asks, shoulders setting into place like he’s bracing himself for a fistfight. 

“Anything,” Ian replies. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest, and he doesn’t fucking know why. 

“Okay. Anything.” The expression on Mickey’s face is unreadable, so Ian decides to focus on the tip of his nose instead of his eyes. It’s easier to look at, but not by much. 

“Oh, but,” he straightens up. “Don’t draw a dick, or tits, or anything like that. That’s my only guideline.”

A mystified look has settled over Mickey’s face. “Let me get this straight,” he drawls, harsh demeanor completely vaporized into the smoky air. “You want me to give you a tattoo of something cultured, but it can’t be a dick?”

“Yes.”

“A tattoo of anything?”

“Yes.”

“Except a dick?”

“Except a dick.”

“Shit,” Mickey says. The gears in his brain are turning, and Ian wishes he could see them. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ian repeats, partially to assure himself that this is a smart thing to do. That he won’t regret it. Even though everything about Mickey Milkovich screams ‘ _danger_ ’, from the crooked way he stands to the gravelly sound of his voice, there’s something about him that reels Ian in like a fish on a hook. Something Ian can’t put his finger on. Something enthralling that makes the palms of his hands feel clammy and makes his knees heavy. 

Ian really, really hopes he doesn’t regret this.

* * *

By the time Lip and Mandy return with two cases of Bud, a bag of potato chips, and a pack of Camels, Ian is lying stomach-down and shirtless on one of the leather chairs while Mickey holds a buzzing needle over his neck. It took the older boy less than a few minutes of rummaging around one of the back rooms to emerge with a design and stencil in hand, the corners of his mouth quirked into a grin. Whether or not this is a good sign is subjective in Ian's mind, so he chooses to believe it's good.

Ian’s nervous, _of course_ he’s nervous, but he lifts his chin anyway and follows Mickey’s directions wordlessly. He doesn’t even complain when the roaring punk music is turned back on, Mickey explaining to him that it “helps him focus”. Ian says nothing, deciding that arguing with a man who has an array of sharp needles in front of him isn’t the most scholarly thing to do. 

Mandy’s proclamation that the needle will “pinch a little” is a horrific understatement; it hurts like a motherfucker. Ian tries to stay still and keep as quiet as possible by biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tastes metal, but it doesn’t do much other than wound him further. 

Mandy tries to distract him by dramatically reenacting stories from her childhood (“I swear it’s true, he had a bat! One of those plastic ones you get from Dick’s Sporting Goods, the big blue kind --”) and telling bad jokes (“Is that a mirror in your pants, Gallagher?”), while Lip helps Ian knock back a sip of beer every few minutes by lifting the bottle to his lips and tilting it up. 

Mickey doesn’t say much of anything, only speaking when spoken to or tapping his foot to whatever _Sex Pistols_ song is playing from his portable speaker. Occasionally, Ian feels the icy pads of his fingers pressing or fluttering across his back, a sweet sensation compared to the stinging bite of the needle. Every time this happens, Ian sucks in a sharp breath and his toes curl a little in his boots. 

The hour and forty minutes it takes for Mickey to drill the mystery design into Ian’s skin goes by quickly. Ian doesn’t know if the pain makes it go faster or slower (he’s basically lost all preconceived notions of time at this point) but before he knows it Mickey is wiping a cold swab of rubbing alcohol across his damaged skin and motioning for him to sit up. 

Before he gets a chance to tape a bandage to the base of Ian’s neck, Mandy and Lip demand to see the result. 

“Just because it’s a surprise for him doesn’t mean it has to be for us!” Mandy argues, one hand gripping Ian’s fingers as she shoulders her brother out of the way. 

Ian wants to know what it is. What it looks like. He wants to know so, so badly. 

But he’s also in pain, and his head is a little foggy from the beer, and he’s scared to see what Mickey’s done. So, instead of asking out loud, Ian meets Lip with a meaningful stare. Lip gets the memo, and he circles Ian to get a better look at his neck. 

No one says anything for a long moment, and Ian feels like he’s going to sink into the floor. 

Eventually, he speaks up, voice hoarse, “Did he fuck it up?”

Mandy’s hand comes to squeeze Ian’s, and she murmurs, “No.”

“Lip?” Ian twists as best he can to catch his brother’s eyes, then winces as the skin between his shoulders burns. 

Lip doesn’t look disgusted, or startled, or heated, or anything that Ian is worried he may look. Instead, his mouth is pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows are knit together, confused but a little awestruck. Ian doesn’t know if this is good or bad, so he asks. 

“It’s good,” Lip says, not taking his eyes off Ian’s neck. “It’s really good.” 

Something in Ian’s chest lifts, like fire in a hot air balloon, and he’s relieved. More than relieved. And he really, really, really wants to see the tattoo. 

Mickey has removed himself from the crowd, and Ian watches his back as he retreats towards the counter holding his tray of tools. Maybe he imagines it, but he swears he can see a red blush inching up the back of the shorter man’s neck, and the hot air balloon in Ian’s stomach grows tenfold. His face is on fire, and his legs feel like pulp, and he can’t figure out why Mickey is making him feel like this. His skin isn’t just burning where the needle has struck him, but everywhere. His nose, his elbows, his ankles. 

_It’s just the beer_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully. Just the beer. 

While Mandy and Lip clean up the smattering of empty beer bottles that have piled up around the parlor, Mickey reemerges from the back room and makes his way over to Ian to tape a thin white bandage between his shoulder blades. Afterward, he hands Ian his crumpled t-shirt and jacket, instructs him to put them on carefully, then brandishes a small white business card from his back pocket. 

“If there’s anything wrong with the tattoo site in the next few weeks, call this number,” Mickey says while Ian takes the card from him. The name of the parlor is etched on it in cursive, along with a business phone number and the street address of the building. 

“Thanks,” Ian says. The card feels heavy in his hands. 

“There’s always a possibility of infection, where your skin will swell or get really red, and if that happens then you need to contact us.” Mickey goes on, reciting information as if it’s been imprinted in his brain like a movie script. Ian has a feeling that he’s obliged to tell all his customers this to avoid getting sued. “Svetlana and Nika work here during the day, so they’ll probably be the ones who pick up. If that happens, they’ll make an appointment for you to meet with me and we’ll go from there. Other than that, just be gentle when you wash your skin, and use an antibiotic lotion if it gets irritated. It can take up to six months to fully heal, but since yours is small it shouldn’t be longer than a few weeks. Got it?”

Ian is dizzy. “Got it.”

“Good.” 

Mandy and Lip have finished cleaning up, and they’re standing near the front door talking in hushed voices. When Mickey finally finishes talking, Lip motions for Ian to come over and mouths _’hurry up’_.

“Um,” Ian shifts his weight and sticks a hand into his pocket, groping for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Surprisingly, Mickey puts his hand out and shakes his head. “On the house.”

Ian falters. “What? Are you sure? I basically made you work overtime--”

“It’s your birthday,” Mickey interrupts. His voice isn’t good-natured or cordial, but it’s not unfriendly either. “This is a birthday present. No charge.” 

Ian blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

“Okay.”

“Have a good night, or whatever,” Mickey says, clearly eager to get the three of them out of his parlor. Ian doesn’t blame him -- it’s past eleven o’clock. 

“Yeah, um, you too.”

Ian doesn’t know what else to say, so he gives Mickey a reluctant smile and turns towards the door. Lip opens the screen door with his foot, ready to usher them back into the frosty night. 

“Night, fuckwad!” Mandy slurs to her brother before stumbling out. She’s drunker than the rest of them, which isn’t exactly out of character, but it makes Ian laugh under his breath anyway.

“Night, douchebag,” Mickey’s voice comes from the back of the store. 

It takes all of Ian’s might to not look back. 

As he crosses the threshold of the door, he is met with a cool barricade of wind, so he burrows his hands into his pockets and clenches his jaw. He can feel the parlor’s business card crumple in his hand, and he finds himself clutching it as the screen clacks shut behind him and they start to shuffle down the rickety wooden staircase. 

Mandy is talking about something, but her words are slow and fuzzy, and her hair is ruffled like the feathers of a bird. Lip is glowing against the opaque backdrop, eyes dusty, still holding a half-empty beer in one hand as he nods along to the sound of Mandy’s voice. They are warm, genial, and Ian loves them both. 

He thumbs the business card in his pocket and abruptly pulls it out to un-crumple it. It’s then that he notices a number on the back of the card, blocky and written carelessly in pen. Just beneath the number, in small, quick chicken scratch, Ian reads the words _“just in case”_ , and suddenly he feels warm, too. 

He wonders what Mickey drew on his skin. He wonders why it made Mandy nearly speechless when she saw it. He wonders if he’s glowing against the night like Lip is. He hopes he is. 

He feels like he could light up the whole sky.


	2. part ii

Mickey Milkovich is not an idiot.

Sure, he may not have graduated high school; he may not know the quadratic formula off the top of his head, or how to find the area of a sphere, or what trigonometry is. He knows fuck-all about ionic bonds and atomic structure, and he remembers very little about the American Civil War, _The Great Gatsby_ , and William Shakespeare’s sonnets. But just because he isn’t book smart doesn’t mean he’s an idiot.

What he does know how to do comes in handy more than his shitty public school curriculum ever will; he knows how to pay his rent on time, and how to fix the leaky faucet in his apartment, and how to scavenge for meals if his paycheck doesn’t cover his food for the week. He knows how to live on the street, how to work on the corner, how to place a bet, and how to swing a punch with just the right amount of velocity to knock someone out. He knows how to tell if someone’s lying; he knows how to get what he wants out of someone -- what he needs. 

But most importantly, he knows how to make art. And he’s fucking good at it. 

He’s so good at it that people are willing to pay him to get a piece of his art, his handiwork, forever inked onto their body, and sometimes he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t owe it to anyone -- he doesn’t owe anything to anyone, in fact. He’s made a habit of not owing anyone anything. But he does it anyway; he bends over strangers’ limbs and digs his ink into their skin, leaving marks that cost a lot more to remove than to receive. He knows what he’s doing when he’s tattooing someone, even if they don’t know what they’re getting themselves into. 

The bottom line: Mickey Milkovich is definitely not an idiot. However, he does make idiotic decisions, sometimes. 

Only sometimes. 

One of these times is when he decides to give Ian fucking Gallagher his phone number. 

It isn’t a big deal at first; Ian is Mandy’s best friend, and Mickey is closer to Mandy than he is to anyone else on the planet. It only seems fair that he gets to be involved with the same people she is. He also gives it to Ian under the capital pretense that it will never be used; it is given as an option, not a suggestion. He’s not even sure why he does it in the first place -- it just seems opportune, like he might regret it if he doesn’t. 

Mickey lets himself think that he’s safe until one afternoon, days after the night at the tattoo parlor, he gets a text from an unknown number.

 _“hey”_ is all it says -- no capitals, no punctuation. 

He knows who it is immediately (because who else would it be) but he really doesn’t want to be right. He doesn’t want to ask for clarification. He wants to delete the notification and continue eating his caesar salad in peace. But, of course, he can’t get what he wants because then the universe would be slacking in its relentless hatred of Milkovich blood. 

A second text chimes: _“sorry i just realized u definitely don’t have my contact info”_

Then a third. _“it’s ian from the other day -- ian gallagher”_

Mickey wants to chuck his phone towards the wall and watch it shatter against his faded _Led Zeppelin_ posters. But then Mandy would run in from her bedroom across the hall, and Yevgeny would start crying, and Svetlana would shout at him, and Mickey would rather dig his own grave than deal with any of them. 

So he stares at his phone, notification floating at his fingertips, and goes against his better judgment. He starts with a simple, _“Okay?”_ because he doesn’t understand why the fuck is Ian Gallagher texting him at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday. He doesn’t understand why Ian Gallagher is texting him at all. 

_“i have a question about the tattoo,”_ the screen lights up again. 

Mickey would like very much to sink into a hole. _“Parlor is open until 8 today,”_ he texts, trying as best as he can to cut the conversation short. 

_“can’t i just ask u rn?”_ Gallagher replies.

No, no the fuck he can’t. He can go right ahead and never speak to Mickey again, and they can both live happily ever after, the end. Mickey clenches his jaw and drops his fork into his salad bowl with a clatter. His fingers are stiff as he types out, _“Is there something wrong with it?”_

 _“no,”_ the phone chimes, _“it’s about the design.”_

Jesus Christ. If Gallagher has an issue with the design, Mickey may as well just end it all. Tie the rope; pull the trigger. _“What about it?”_ he asks. 

Gallagher responds within seconds, _“i just wanted to know why u chose it. what ur inspiration was.”_

Mickey wants to tear all his hair out of his skull. He can’t think of a single person who can get underneath his skin more quickly than Ian Gallagher. The worst part is that the idiot doesn’t even know he’s doing it; if it was purposeful, then maybe Mickey would have an easier time dealing with it. But the only explanation behind Ian’s irritability is that the universe hates Mickey. Obviously. 

_“What kind of question is that?"_ Mickey grinds out, the blue bubble of text mocking him from beyond the thin sheet of glass as it gets sent.

The next few messages come in a staggered series, one immediately after the other:

_“sorry, it doesn’t matter. nvm.”_

_“i was just curious”_

_“sorry for bugging u”_

Clearly, Mickey isn’t going to get a chance to off himself, because Ian Gallagher is going to kill him first. 

He doesn’t respond to the texts -- he doesn’t even unlock his phone to mark them as “read” -- and his face twists into befuddlement. He decides not to push the conversation farther and sets his phone down on the kitchen table. 

_What the fuck,_ he thinks to himself, eyes burning holes into the back of his phone case. Half of him expects the little metal rectangle to chime again, and the other half of him is glad it doesn’t. 

He attempts to forget about it for the rest of the day, then brings up the strange encounter with Mandy later in the evening as they share a pizza on their living room couch. Mandy offers no consolation whatsoever; instead, she smacks her brother on the side of the head and rolls her heavily-lined eyes.

“It’s a tattoo, Mick, which means it’s going to be on him forever. The least you could do is tell him what it means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything!”

“Of course it does. There’s no way that drawing means nothing.”

“It’s not even my original design, how the fuck am I supposed to know the hidden meaning!?”

“So, then tell Ian whose design it is and he can take it up with them.”

“Not possible.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because the original artist is dead, Mands.”

“Jesus Christ.”

* * *

The second time Ian Gallagher’s phone number appears on Mickey’s phone, over a month has gone by.

It’s late June, and summer has reared its sweaty head over Canaryville; the sky is an endless stretch of blue, so deep that Mickey finds himself getting a little lost in it whenever he looks up. The neighbors’ mulchy lawns are overrun with weeds and ivy, and the crooked trees that line the sidewalks begin to bloom with greens and yellows. Kids rough house in the streets, air conditioners stay on all day, and Mickey hates it all. 

He doesn’t know the exact psychology behind his prejudice of summer; it’s not the hot weather he dislikes, or the cloudless nights, or the lingering smell of barbeque that settles over the neighborhood. He probably hates it because he knows it’s all temporary; that the cold, depressing winter will sweep back in and make the leaves deteriorate and make the sidewalks flush with brown snow as if summer was never there. 

He’s not the type of person to enjoy things while they last, but rather spend his time worrying about how long they’ll last. But he doesn’t know if there’s more to it, and frankly, he doesn’t care. 

Mornings are Mickey’s least favorite part of the summer, primarily because the sun starts to rise before six and it screws up his sleep schedule irreparably. So, of course (because the universe hates him), it’s morning when Mickey gets the call. 

He dismisses it as spam first, not bothering to roll towards his nightstand and actually check the number. After all, no human being would be calling at seven-fifteen a.m. 

Once the ringing ceases fire, Mickey allows himself to slip back into unconsciousness, the slanted morning light beating down on his eyelids and making his head feel fuzzy. But then the ringing starts again, and he finds himself groaning into his sheets. 

The number is familiar, but that doesn’t make Mickey more inclined to answer. He stares at the screen of his phone for a very long time, letting the automated ringtone pound into his eardrums until Svetlana kicks him under the sheets.

“Answer,” her voice is muffled by the pillow she’s smushed her face against. She’s facing away from Mickey, like always; the line of her back is highlighted by the light streaming in through their blinds. 

Making a point of sighing loudly, Mickey presses the bright green “accept” button and holds the phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” A voice filters through the speaker, and it sounds hauntingly familiar. 

Mickey tries to match the voice to a face -- a dealer, a shop owner, a cousin -- but he comes up empty. He speaks into the receiver sleepily, “Who is this?”

“Um,” the line crackles with static. “Ian. Uh-- Gallagher.”

Every alarm in Mickey’s head goes off at once, and he snaps up like a rod, spine stiff and jaw tense. _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Out loud, he says simply, “Can I help you?”

“Um, yeah, sorry, I really didn’t mean to wake you, but I called Mandy already and she didn’t pick up so I figured you were the next best option, I’m so sorry if I woke you--”

“Hold up, ” Mickey snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. Ian is talking way too fast. “Slow down, get to the point.”

“Right. Sorry. Um, I was going to invite Mandy to the Fourth of July block party my family is hosting next week, but I just wanted to say that you’re welcome there, too. And anyone you want to bring. Just spreading the word, that’s all.” It’s like Ian’s trying to see how many words he can fit into one breath, and it’s giving Mickey a headache. 

“Block party?”

“Yeah. You know, steaks and beers and fireworks, all that stuff.”

Mickey feels something swelling in the pit of his stomach, and he grits his teeth to try and stamp it down. “But we don’t live on your block.”

“Yeah, but you’re in the neighborhood, aren’t you?” Ian’s voice is hesitant, like any word he says could be a landmine waiting to explode in Mickey’s face. 

“Unless you’re from a different Gallagher family than the one I’m thinking of, then yes,” Mickey drags out, “we’re a couple of streets over, on Union.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Mickey says nothing. He has a bad taste in his mouth, and it’s not just from morning breath. 

“Uh,” Ian flounders for a moment, “could you mention it to Mandy? See if she’s interested?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says.

“Thanks.”

“Whatever.”

There’s a pause, and Mickey thinks that this is the part where he hangs up, but Ian’s voice catches once more; “I hope you can make it.”

The thing in Mickey’s stomach festers, and all he can think is _fuck you Ian Gallagher fuck you fuck you fuck you,_ and the phone burns like heated iron in his hand. He really shouldn’t have given away his number.

He worked tirelessly to get the infuriating redhead out of his brain ever since the night at the parlor, purposefully casting away any thoughts about green eyes or half-smiles or freckled shoulder blades. 

If he thinks about Ian Gallagher, he’s screwed -- he was screwed the minute Mandy dragged his orange-hair and 100-watt smile into Mickey’s studio. He was screwed the minute Ian offered his hand in greeting and waited for Mickey to shake it. He was screwed the minute Ian blew out a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth and said the words “prove it” like they meant something, excitement and ambiguity nebulous in his eyes. 

He is completely one-hundred-percent screwed, and it’s too late to do anything about it. 

“I hope so too,” Mickey surprises himself, speaking faintly into the phone. It’s surprising because he’s not sure if he’s lying. 

Before Ian can say anything else, Mickey hangs up and lets the phone slip from his hands; it bounces once, then twice on the mattress. 

“Who was it?” Svetlana’s thickly-accented voice drifts through the morning light, and she turns onto her back to look pointedly at Mickey. 

“Mandy’s friend,” Mickey says curtly. Before Svetlana can ask anything else or make any snide comments, Mickey rips the sheets off his legs and shoots across the hall to his sister’s room, the weight of what just happened slamming into him like a wall of cement. He shoulders the door open only to find her bed empty, blanket and pillows askew. 

“Mandy!” He shouts for her down the hall before stomping into the kitchen; to his imminent astonishment, Mandy is perched on the kitchen counter wearing nothing but a large t-shirt and a pair of stupid bunny slippers that Mickey had gifted to her as a joke years ago. 

“Brother dearest,” she greets, lowering a spoonful of cereal from her mouth and flashing a drowsy smile at him. 

“Since when did you get up this early?!” Mickey demands, head pounding in protest. 

“I’ve always gotten up early, you’re just never awake to witness it.” She takes an irritably cheerful bite of her Lucky Charms. 

Mickey looks at her like she’s grown another head. “Okay, freak of nature. I wanted to say that I just got off the phone with your boyfriend, and he invited us to a block party next week.”

“Boyfriend?” Mandy cocks her head. 

“Friend with benefits, side piece, fuck buddy, I don’t care what you call him. The point is that he called me at seven-fucking-fifteen in the morning to invite us to a party because you weren’t answering your damn phone.”

“Forgot to charge it last night,” Mandy shrugs, “and I still don’t know who you're talking about.” She points the spoon at Mickey’s head and adds, “Also, technically, you can’t have a side piece unless you have a main piece.”

“You-- Jesus, Mandy, I don’t care,” Mickey says with exasperation. It’s too early for this. “Gallagher called.”

“Which one?”

“The fucking redhead.”

“Ian or Debbie?”

This is not helping Mickey’s headache whatsoever. “Ian,” he practically snarls, infuriated with his sister’s chummy manner.

“Oh,” Mandy hums. She hops off the counter, feet landing on the tile gently. “You could have just said that. Why does Ian have your number?”

“I-- does it matter?”

“A little, yeah. Why are you being weird?”

“One question at a time, woman,” Mickey bites out. He quickly occupies himself by opening the fridge and pulling out a jar of peanut butter, not wanting to meet Mandy’s eye as he admits gruffly, “I gave it to him after his birthday tattoo last month, just in case it got infected or something.”

As expected, Mandy pitches an odd look in Mickey’s direction. “Don’t you usually just give people your business card and call it a day?”

Mickey plugs in their nearly-broken toaster and sets it to two minutes. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh my god.” A shrewd grin begins to dawn on Mandy’s face, and Mickey’s urge to commit homicide grows considerably larger. She’s too smart for her own good, and Mickey despises her for it. “You were trying to hit on him!” 

“ _I was not._ ”

“You totally were!” Mandy’s face has transformed into the most devious expression Mickey’s ever seen on her. “You slipped him your number because you think he’s hot!” 

“I don’t!” Mickey slams a piece of bread into the toaster, skin ablaze.

“Yes, you do! Look at you, you’re blushing,” Mandy grabs Mickey by the chin and forcefully swivels his head towards her. 

He grits his teeth and kicks her shin, “Get off, assface!” 

“I can’t believe it,” Mandy is practically dripping with beguilement, and all Mickey can think is _fuck fuck fuck_. “You have a crush on a Gallagher!”

Mickey rounds on her and spits, “I will not hesitate to throw this toaster at you.”

His words do nothing to deter Mandy -- if anything, they egg her on, and her grin grows more sly by the second. “What are you going to do next? Ask him to the homecoming dance? Do a promposal? Get matching promise rings?”

“I will slit your throat in your sleep, I swear on everything holy--”

“I can’t believe it,” she says again, cutting him off mid-swear with a tinny laugh. Mickey hates her so much. “You said he invited you to a party?”

The toaster dings, and he desperately spins back around to grab his bread and busy himself by spreading an unhealthy amount of peanut butter onto it. The more peanut butter, the less he has to look at Mandy. “He was actually just trying to invite _you_ to a party, but since you didn’t pick up, he extended the invite to me.”

“How romantic.” 

Mickey jabs his middle finger over his shoulder. 

“What kind of party is it?”

“Block party,” he says before taking a large bite of his toast. “For the Fourth of July or something.” 

“Next week?”

“Mhm,” Mickey grunts, mouth full. 

“Perfect.” Mandy crosses the kitchen and drops her now empty bowl of cereal into the sink; Mickey narrows his eyes a little, knowing that he’s the one going to be stuck cleaning it later on. Mandy then spins to him a little too eagerly and says, “We can stop by Goodwill tomorrow after my shift and pick you out something to wear that isn’t a dumb muscle shirt or tank top. You’re free tomorrow, right?”

Mickey blinks at her, disconcerted. “What?”

“They probably have some nice button-ups you could get for a few dollars,” she continues talking, turning back to the sink and flicking on the faucet as she does so. “Oh, and while we’re there, we could pick up some new pajamas for Yev, since he’s growing out of his green dinosaur ones. If they don’t have any there we could always take the L to the Salvation Army near Chinatown--”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Mickey shuts her down, almost dropping his toast face-down on the tile. “Why do I need something to wear?”

Mandy raises her eyebrows, mirroring Mickey’s signature look. “You want to look nice when you see your Prince Charming next week, don’t you?” 

“What?” Mickey says again even more incredulously. “You mean we’re going?”

She looks at him strangely. “Of course we are. He invited us for a reason.”

“Being?”

“I’m his closest friend, Mick! Probably his only one given that he spends every waking moment with his family when he’s not with me.”

“Okay, but why do I have to go?!”

Mandy shoves at him. “Because he invited you! And, clearly, you’ve got eyes for him. Why would you pass this up?”

Mickey laughs, but it doesn’t come out cheerful. “I do not have ‘eyes’ for him,” he says, using finger quotes. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“We’re going, and that’s final.” Mandy pins him with one of her death glares -- it’s a move that she’s used since she was a toddler, either to get things from Terry or one of her older brothers. It’s nearly foolproof. Nearly. 

Before Mickey can open his mouth to argue with her, Svetlana comes stumbling into the kitchen, arms wrapped around a wailing Yevgeny. 

“You assholes wake Yev up,” she barks, hair sticking up on one side of her head and eyes narrowed severely. As if to confirm this, the toddler cries louder and slams a tiny fist against his mother’s shoulder. 

“Shit.” Mickey feels himself sag with defeat, and he begrudgingly makes his way over to Svetlana and puts his hand on his son’s back. “I can take him,” he says, motioning for Svetlana to transfer the little boy into his arms. 

As she does so, Yev’s cries reduce to steady sobs, and he grabs on to Mickey’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. 

“I got you,” Mickey says to him quietly, rubbing his back and bouncing him a little in his arms. “It’s okay, your auntie and I are done fighting, it’s okay.” He makes eye contact with Mandy over the toddler’s shoulder, and she glares back at him. 

“We’re going,” she hisses to him as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel then pushes her way out of the kitchen. Svetlana watches her go, expression churning from annoyance to confusion. 

Instead of enlightening her on the conversation, Mickey juts his chin out at her and says, “Eat breakfast and head to the studio without me. I’m going to stay home for a few hours.”

Svet sighs, but doesn’t protest. “You will watch baby, yes?”

“Yeah, ‘course. But he’s not really a baby anymore, you know.” Yev’s cries have been completely replaced by small sniffles, and his head is tucked on Mickey’s shoulder. For some reason, Mickey is the little boy’s favorite when it comes to seeking comfort; Mickey doesn’t know why, given that he’d been ready to put the little fucker up for adoption when he first popped out. 

Things are different now, of course, because now Yev says little things like “dada” and “up” and “vroom”, and every time he speaks, Mickey’s heart gets a little softer. (“Vroom” is his favorite word so far; Mickey thinks he’s destined to be a Nascar driver.) 

Mickey doesn’t necessarily like kids -- they're annoying and messy and expensive -- but he likes Yev, and Yev likes him. So everything balances out. 

Everything except the fact that the only reason he’s entitled to Yev is because of his peace of shit father and a pseudo marriage license that he’s not committed to in the least.

“He will always be baby in my eyes,” Svetlana says, interrupting Mickey’s train of thought.

For once, he has a hard time disagreeing with her.

* * *

Unfortunately for Mickey, Mandy stays tried and true to her word; they spend much of the following day picking over the local thrift stores like vultures until finally, _finally_ , Mickey finds an outfit he doesn’t hate and Mandy approves of. It’s nothing remarkable, in his opinion, but the look on Mandy’s face when he emerges from the dressing room is nothing short of flabbergasted.

“You didn’t even look this good on your fake wedding day!” she exclaims fervently, earning her a pair of laser-eyes and an overt middle finger. 

The day of the block party is as serendipitous and handsome as every other day; the sky is a shade of royal blue, and little cotton-y clouds dot it like a painting. The air is thick with humidity and the smoky smell of cooked food wafts through the streets like wind; it seems like every single person alive is lounging on their front porch or playing football in the road. 

Mickey walks stiffly between Mandy and Svetlana, pushing his son in an obnoxiously rattly stroller and purposefully keeping his eyes trained low on the sidewalk. The two women are clad like polar opposites; Svet is wearing a fluttering maxi skirt that has little pink flowers sprinkled over it, and Mandy is tugging at a strapless black sundress, but they share the same blissful smile. Mickey feels like a sore thumb, stuck between them with a frown carved into him like he was born with it. 

It doesn’t take long to walk to the infamous Gallagher house; it’s closer than Mickey expects, and he can hear it before he can see it. Oscillating rap music, shrieking children, and boisterous laughter surround the fragile-looking house at the end of the block, and Mickey can tell right away that it’s the type of party that only gets louder as the sun gets lower. 

Most people are congregated in the large empty lot next to the house; lawn chairs and picnic blankets are strewn about carelessly, and small children weave their way through the fray of adults at dangerously high speeds. There is a large above-ground pool at one end of the lot and a line of plastic folding tables on the other, each one sporting an array of fruit bowls and condiments. Mickey’s eyes are immediately drawn towards a large metal keg and a circle of ice chests, and he has to refrain from making a beeline towards it and drowning himself in alcohol. 

“Shit,” Mandy laughs happily as they approach the scene. “Is this what the American dream looks like?”

“I don’t think the American dream involves a vacant lot in the middle of the ghetto,” Mickey retorts, grip tightening on the handle of Yevgeny’s stroller. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Mandy starts off into the throng of people and calls over her shoulder, “I’m getting a beer and finding Ian!” 

Mickey watches her disappear into the gathering, and his frown deepens. Svetlana is grinning next to him, hands on her hips and eyes scanning the scene bemusedly. “Is very large family, yes?”

Mickey exhales through his nose. “I don’t think everyone here is a Gallagher, Svet.”

“Bullshit. They are all white.”

“No, they aren’t. Plus, you and I are white and we’re not related to them, are we?” Mickey parks the stroller next to the front staircase of the house. 

Svet makes a “humph” sound under her breath, then kneels in front of the stroller to unstrap Yev. Mickey folds his arms self-consciously, watching the party ebb and flow in his peripheral vision until Svetlana hoists the toddler into her arms and kicks at Mickey’s foot. 

“We go in now?”

Mickey fights back a sigh and says sullenly, “I guess we do.” 

Together, they make their way into the fray of people, stepping over empty beer bottles and around plastic chairs until they spot Mandy talking animatedly to a certain 6-foot-tall redhead.

Mandy sees them approaching and starts to wave them over with a blinding smile, the red solo cup in her hand sloshing a little as she does so. Ian follows her gaze as they draw closer, and Mickey finds himself looking determinedly at the grass. _Jesus Christ._

“Hey!” Ian’s voice is far too genial, and it does wonders to Mickey’s heart rate. “I’m so glad you guys made it!” 

They come to a stop in front of one of the food tables, and Mandy eagerly begins introductions. “Ian, you’ve already met my brother, but I don’t think you’ve met Svetlana. She does the piercings at the parlor in Bridgeport.”

“Right.” Mickey glances up just in time for Ian to flash his 100-watt smile at Svetlana and hold his hand out amicably. “I remember, your name was mentioned.”

“Hopefully in good context,” Svetlana shifts Yevgeny in her arms and shakes Ian’s hand, returning his warm smile. Her accent seems to startle him and his brow creases.

“Woah. What is that, Romanian? German?”

“Russian,” she says. “It is shocker for many people, but I am good-hearted American citizen, I promise.” 

Mickey snorts at this, then immediately regrets it as Ian’s emerald eyes flick towards him. Thankfully, before either man can get a word out, the sound of a small Yevgeny-like squeal draws their attention to the meager boy squirming in Svetlana’s arms. 

The grin on Ian’s face grows tenfold, and it’s so bright that Mickey regrets leaving his sunglasses at home. “Who’s this little man!?” he asks, bending his knees to get a better look at the dark-haired toddler. 

“His name is Yevgeny,” Svetlana shifts the boy in her arms so Yev can look at Ian properly. The toddler’s ice-colored eyes are the size of dinner plates, and his thumb is stuck nervously between his teeth. 

“Hey, buddy,” Ian beams, his voice pitching up a soft octave as he addresses the little boy. “Is he your son?”

Svet nods pridefully, and Mickey feels sick to his stomach when she doesn’t bother pointing out that Yevgeny is a product of him, as well. 

“You would like to hold him?” she asks cheerily, bouncing Yev on her hip. 

“I’d love to,” he says graciously, but before she can dump Yev into his arms, he straightens his spine and draws back minutely. “But only if he’s comfortable with it. I know how kids his age can get anxious around strangers.”

Mickey wants to melt into a puddle where he stands. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mandy glance at him as her smile twists into a conniving smirk, and his skin flames up. She can read him way too well. 

“You have children?” Svetlana perks up inquisitively. 

“Siblings,” Ian explains, hands resting in the pockets of his jeans sheepishly. 

“I see. They are here at party?”

“Yeah,” Ian nods, and he juts his chin towards the above ground pool where a small group of kids who look somewhat related splash at each other. 

Svetlana follows his gesture curiously and her eyes widen. “Christ, how many do you have?”

“Three younger, two older.”

“Ah, so you are middle child?”

Ian grimaces. “Unfortunately.”

Svetlana slaps Mickey’s shoulder unexpectedly, and he startles. “Mikhailo is middle child as well! Explains hatred of everything, yes?”

Mickey hesitantly exchanges a look with Ian, and he’s met with a peculiar smirk. 

“I guess it does,” Ian says slowly, and Mickey fears that his skin has gone a dangerous shade of red. 

“I don’t hate everything,” he protests, enveloping his arms protectively. “Just most things.”

Ian’s eyebrows climb up. “Like Van Damme?”

 _Fucker._ “Van Damme isn’t everything,” Mickey points out plainly.

“Agree to disagree,” Ian tilts his head, smile cracking playfully, and his hair flashes in the afternoon sunlight. “Can I get you guys drinks? 

“Please,” Mickey says automatically, and Svetlana echoes him enthusiastically. 

Mandy snickers, beer already in hand, then trails at their feet as Ian leads them away from the food tables and towards the oasis of ice buckets. 

Svetlana lets Yevgeny down from her arms and holds his hand as he dawdles next to the group, taking exaggerated steps over large weeds and discarded paper plates. Mickey feels his mouth curl into a soft smile as he watches the little boy hop ridiculously over a patch of daisies, and some benevolent, paternal part of his brain prompts him to ruffle the kid’s hair. 

“What’s your poison?” Ian asks when they reach the keg. “We’ve got beer on the tap, wine coolers in that bucket, and non-alcoholic stuff for the kids in the other.” 

“No vodka?”

Ian takes one look at Svetlana and laughs, bright and amusing. “We’re saving the hard stuff for dessert, sorry. You want a juice box instead?”

Svetlana grumbles something in Russian under her breath, then reluctantly swipes a wine cooler from one of the ice buckets. 

Mickey is already taking matters into his own hands and grabbing a plastic cup from a stack next to the keg. But before he can put a hand on the tap, Ian intercepts him by grabbing his elbow. 

“Hold up,” he says, easing Mickey’s arm away, “I got this. Hand me your cup?”

Mickey is taken aback. “I know how to use a keg, princess,” he snaps.

“Never said you didn’t,” Ian is unphased, and he proceeds to pluck the cup out of Mickey’s hand and holds it under the tap anyways. “I’m just being a good host.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and reluctantly backs off, watching the lanky man kneel down and twist the tap open. As he hunches over, Mickey can’t help but notice the back of his dark blue t-shirt ride down near his neck, and a flash of strikingly familiar black ink pokes out from under the hem. 

Something vehement yanks at Mickey’s heartstrings; it’s a hefty and disorienting thing that makes his chest tight and his muscles taut, and he can’t begin to explain it. He can’t understand why just the thought of his artwork pressed and printed into Ian Gallagher’s skin makes his fingertips numb and his teeth clench. He tries to tuck the feeling away, lock it in the back of his head with a deadbolt, but he can’t seem to make himself throw away the key. 

He can’t do a lot of things, apparently. 

Ian is standing back up and holding the cup out to Mickey in seconds, and the flash of ink disappears. Mickey tries to keep his face straight, and tries even harder not to dwell on the way Ian’s fingers are radiating heat like a furnace as he passes the beer over. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says. It comes out quieter than he intends. 

“Not a problem,” Ian replies breezily, keeping his gaze cool while Mickey averts his own and takes a sip of the beverage. “What about you, little man?” His voice pitches again as he turns to address Yevgeny, who is squatting and plucking at a clump of grass. His big eyes rotate up as soon as the older man speaks to him. “Do you want a juice box like your mom?”

Yevgeny, predictably, raises his little arms and says, “Vroom!” 

Ian looks at Mickey, who quickly swallows the tiny smile Yev always manages to pull out of him. “Does ‘vroom’ mean yes?”

“Most of the time, yeah,” Mickey replies. “Other times it just means ‘vroom’.” 

“Gotcha. Grape or apple juice?”

“Apple,” Svetlana answers swiftly. “Grape makes him cry like banshee. Too sour.” 

For some reason, this only makes Ian smile harder. If Mickey smiled as much as he did, his lips might just fall right off. “Apple it is.” 

Mickey feels awkward as Ian bends over again to rummage through another ice chest in search of apple juice; he feels awkward because Ian is getting along with the little boy so easily, so organically, whereas Mickey took months to even begin to feel comfortable with him. He used to sit up in his bed at night and stare at Yevgeny’s cream-colored bassinet from across the room, wondering how he got there, or if he was in the middle of an excruciatingly long hallucination. 

But then Svetlana would sniffle in her sleep, or her leg would twitch against Mickey’s calf, or Mandy would cough from another room, and Mickey would know that his life was very much real.

He doesn’t know if a hallucination would be better or worse. 

Watching Yevgeny in the grass, Mickey takes a long sip of his beer. It’s as refreshing as it is cheap, and it’s got a harsh metallic tinge to it that makes him suck on his tongue a little. He wishes he had a cigarette that he could chew on and mask the taste of iron with smoke. 

The party churns around him like a steady current, loud music and ceaseless chatter blending together in the gooey, humid atmosphere. Ian and Mandy have struck up a conversation about some mutual friend, but Mickey isn’t really listening, and Svetlana is nursing her wine cooler and nodding at Yev while he babbles in her direction, juice box squeezed in his tiny fists. 

Mickey desperately wishes he had something to do with his limbs other than stand, shifting his weight back and forth, back and forth, feeling a bit like a haggard birch tree in a field of grass. Stuck, swaying in the wind, silent.

Mandy eventually drifts away, spotting Ian’s brother Lip across the grass and maneuvering her way over to bat her mascaraed eyelashes at him, leaving Mickey and Svetlana to fend for themselves amongst the sea of Gallaghers and drunk neighbors. 

Ian, cradling his beer like a newborn baby, is opening his mouth to initiate some kind of small talk with them when a slender woman with a mane of frizzy brown hair and low-rise jeans comes up from behind him and cuts him short.

“Hey, Ian, have you seen Liam anywhere? Carl wasn’t keeping an eye on him and he disappeared, the little shit.” 

“No, sorry,” Ian responds coolly, thumbs hooking in his front belt loops as he faces the woman. “Did you check inside yet?” 

“No, I figured I’d ask you first,” the woman produces a tired smile, one that Mickey recognizes immediately as parental exhaustion, yet she seems far too young to be a mother. (But then again, Mickey is far too young to be a father. Fucking irony.) 

She then catches sight of Mickey, Svetlana, and Yevgeny, all peering at her like she’s an animal at a zoo; a new, engaging, and very pretty animal. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks without preamble, brow furrowing into a jagged line.

“Shit, right, sorry,” Ian stumbles over his words as he swallows a mouthful of beer. “Fiona, this is Mickey, Mandy’s brother, their coworker, Svetlana, and her son. They live a few blocks over.”

Yevgeny’s tongue is poking out of his mouth as he stares up at the woman, juice box crinkling under his tight fist.

Something akin to surprise flickers across the woman’s -- Fiona’s -- face as Ian concludes his introduction. “Mickey, as in Mickey Milkovich?”

Mickey scratches awkwardly at his eyebrow with his thumbnail. He hates how recognizable his name is. “The one and only.”

“You’re Terry’s kid?” 

He stifles a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately.” 

“Huh,” her surprise morphs into mirth and she chuckles lightly. “Your dad and my dad have quite the history. I believe there was a situation with a tire iron and an unpaid opioid shipment a few years ago?” 

It’s Mickey’s turn to be astonished; his jaw falls open. “You’re Frank’s daughter?” 

Fiona flashes her teeth and echoes him, “Unfortunately.”

“Damn,” Mickey darts a look back and forth between Fiona and Ian. He didn’t pin the resemblance at first, but now he’s starting to see it; they have the same narrow cheekbones and sharp chins, and they’re slouching similarly, hands in their pockets and heads tilted ever-so-slightly. A small voice in his head marvels at the fact that Frank Gallagher, notorious for his slimy and grubby physique, managed to produce two extremely, irritatingly attractive people. “My dad hated your dad’s guts.”

“Most people do.” Fiona smiles wryly, then seems to remember why she’s there in the first place and turns back to Ian. “Can you holler if you see Liam? I’m gonna run inside, but if he’s out here I don’t want him getting anywhere near Carl’s fireworks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Ian replies. He seems out-of-focus, like he’s taking a while to process her and Mickey’s conversation. Mickey doesn’t blame him; he’s trying to wrap his head around it, too.

“Thanks, bean.” She reaches up and fluffs Ian’s red hair affectionately, then says offhand to Svetlana, “If your son gets bored, there’s a playpen with a few other kids in it on the other side of the pool. My sister Debs is keeping an eye on them and she’s great with toddlers.” 

Svetlana looks taken aback, but not in a bad way. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing. He’s cute, but we all need breaks, sometimes.” Fiona winks good-naturedly at her, then whirls away from the group like a hurricane, frizzy hair billowing behind her. “Happy Fourth!” 

“Jesus,” Mickey says without meaning to once she’s out of earshot, awestruck by the vacuum of energy she’s left behind. He glances at Ian, who, despite being frazzled, watches his sister walk away with a fond smirk. 

“That’s Fiona, for you,”

Mickey takes a sip of his beer, wondering idly if all women talk like they’re working against an invisible clock. “She seems nice.”

“Good bone structure,” Svetlana adds. 

Ian huffs in amusement. “Yeah, she’s the captain of this ship. Without her, I’d probably have grown up in one of those group homes on Richmond.”

Mickey wrinkles his nose at the sentiment, the cognate smell of body odor and overcooked stew immediately materializing in his mind. “Uhg, that place is a shitshow.”

“You were in the system?” Ian asks, eyebrows arching. 

“Yeah, I spent some time at the Gunderson house over there in middle school,” Mickey replies, folding his arms across his chest. 

Ian blinks.

“What, surprised you aren’t the only one with daddy issues, Gallagher?” It comes out more harsh than he means, but Ian isn’t thrown. Instead of narrowing his eyes or scoffing in offense, as Mickey expects him to, he simply stares, stoic and perplexed.

“Mandy’s never been in it, though.”

“Yeah, so?” 

Mickey is well aware of this; it’s a fact that has stimulated a hefty amount of bitterness towards the DCFS and their preoccupation with tearing families apart. Mickey was in and out of foster homes his whole life, hopping from place to place like he was a pawn in a massive game of checkers. Mandy, on the other hand, always managed to get situated with some proclaimed relative, staying with distant aunts and uncles for months on end while her brother was stuck sharing a room with twenty other boys. He doesn’t know why they were always separated, but he assumes it has something to do with his lengthy juvenile record. “She got lucky.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Ian continues, nonplussed. “How could only one of you get put in the system?” 

“What makes you think it was just me?” Mickey retorts, fingers stiff around his red solo cup. Svetlana and Yevgeny aren’t paying attention, which Mickey is grateful for; an irrational part of him worries that talking about the foster system around Yevgeny will put some kind of jinx on him and he’ll end up there. Mickey wouldn’t wish the system on his worst enemy, let alone his own kid. 

“I just thought--” Ian stops himself, thinking twice. “Nevermind.”

“Look, man, you got a problem with DCFS, take it up with them,” Mickey says, raising his palms in mock surrender. “I’m not gonna stop you. They’ve put me and my brothers through the seven circles of hell, they might as well get some pushback for it.”

“You mean nine.”

“What?”

“Nine circles of hell.” Ian is still looking at Mickey, perplexity slowly being masked with a new, playful emotion that Mickey can’t pin down. “Dante’s _Inferno_ , right?”

“Right,” Mickey says tentatively, jaw going slack as he watches the smirk on the other man’s face stretch.

“It’s nine circles. Limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, fraud, and treachery.” He holds up a finger for every word. “Nine.”

Mickey can’t figure out if he wants to slap the redhead across the face or jump his bones because _holy shit_. “You don’t have a favorite book but you know about Dante’s fucking _Inferno_?”

He shrugs and puts his hands back in his back pockets, taking visible and rueful pleasure in Mickey’s bewilderment. “Never said I didn’t go to school. Got that shit drilled into me in Mr. Harriman’s junior English class.”

“You had Harriman?” Mickey doesn’t try to cover his surprise this time, letting his mouth fall open further.“I had Harriman. Fucking geriatric viagroid failed me the first semester of sophomore year.”

“No way,” Ian laughs incredulously. “He’s not geriatric! He’s like, forty years old.”

“Yeah, old as hell. Doesn’t he have grandkids?”

“I don’t think he has _kid_ kids.”

“Whatever, man,” Mickey says with a sniff. “All I know is that he ruined _To Kill a Mockingbird_ for me, the dick. Couldn’t stop talking about its ‘academic syntax’ or whatever the fuck.”

“He was not that bad!” Ian counters defensively. “I liked him. He had so many stories from when he was stationed in the Middle East.”

Mickey groans. “Don’t even get me started on his fucking stories. How does someone go from being a vet to being a high school English teacher, huh? Those are like, polar opposite occupations.” 

“Well, maybe he wanted to teach his students about--”

Ian is cut off abruptly by a string of Russian curses, courtesy of Svetlana, who is looking back and forth between him and Mickey with a wildly unamused frown while Yevgeny tugs at her skirt. 

“Get room, please,” she sneers, bending down to scoop the little boy up. “You two are flirting like prepubescent children, giving Yevgeny bad example.”

Mickey’s face flushes red and he sputters at Svetlana, “No the fuck we aren’t!”

Instead of arguing, she rolls her eyes and situates Yev on her hip. “Idiot. I take Yev to playpen with other children so he doesn’t have to listen to you.” She turns to Ian, whose face has turned a comical shade of maroon. “You have food at this party, yes?”

Ian swallows audibly, then nods. 

“Where?”

“Um, the big guy with the ponytail is grilling hot dogs over there,” he points past his house and towards the back alley where a steady stream of smoke plumes into the air, presumably from a grill or barbeque. “His name’s Kev.”

Svetlana thanks him methodically, then removes herself from the group and starts to inch her way across the grass. Mickey catches Yev’s eye as he bounces against her shoulder, and he babbles something inaudible with his arms outstretched. He’s still holding a clump of grass in one hand. 

“Um,” Mickey starts, struggling to find his footing as he shifts his gaze back to Ian.

“Um,” Ian agrees, skin still the color of cherry Kool-Aid. Mickey takes slight relief knowing that he isn’t the only one flustered by Svetlana’s sharp words. 

“Sorry about her,” he treads lightly, “she doesn’t really have a, uh, filter.”

Ian blinks slowly. “Because she’s Russian?”

“Sure,” Mickey replies because it’s a valid explanation, sort of. “Because she’s Russian.” 

“I wasn’t, uh, you know,” the redhead stutters, then waves his hands in front of him like they’ll provide a sufficient explanation. Mickey assumes he means to say that he “wasn’t flirting” because of course he wasn’t. Why would he have been?

“Yeah,” Mickey coughs, “yeah, of course, I didn’t think you were.”

“Right, okay.” Ian’s hand has found its way to the back of his neck, and he’s rubbing it back and forth squeamishly. A distant blip in Mickey’s brain reminds him where Ian’s tattoo is placed, but he ignores it as best he can. “I mean, you weren’t, right?”

He goes still. “What?”

Ian’s blush deepens. “Um. Flirting?”

“Oh.” With an unpleasant start, Mickey realizes he doesn’t know the answer to that question. Was he flirting? He’s never flirted before. Hell, he doesn’t even know how to flirt. If he was flirting, he wouldn’t know how to tell one way or the other. “No,” he says anyway, “I didn’t-- I wasn’t. ”

He thinks it’s true. It must be true. But as Ian continues to stare at him, bottom lip sucked between his teeth warily and green eyes blown wide, Mickey begins to reconsider. 

“Okay,” Ian says, and it sounds final, albeit awkward. 

“Okay,” Mickey repeats. He can’t help but remember that they’ve been here before, stuck at a crossroads, neither one accepting the right of way. 

The moment stretches far beyond Mickey’s comfort, and he breaks eye contact with the other man before another wave of redness can wash over his skin. Why the fuck can’t he stop blushing?

Ian breaks the stiff interlude first. “Are you hungry? Should we eat?”

“Yeah, let’s fuckin’ eat,” the words tumble from Mickey’s mouth like an avalanche and he’s endlessly grateful for the change of subject. 

Ian seems no less relieved as he hurries to lead Mickey towards the backyard of the house, smiling and patting people on the back genially as they make their way through the throng of South Siders. 

A large man who must be at least seven feet tall is standing at a sizzling grill around the back of the house, clad in a laughably small apron that is cinched around his waist, and a mop of dark hair is tied in a bun at the top of his head. He’s humming something sprightly to himself as he twirls a pair of tongs between his fingers and pokes at the row of hot dogs lined up along the grill, but he lightens up even more as Ian calls out to him. 

“Kev! You got two to spare? We’re starving over here.”

“You bet I do, soldier,” the guy responds and beckons them closer with a wave of his tongs. Before Ian can get another word out as they approach, Kev throws an arm around him and squeezes him into a rough hug. “Man, it’s been too long! Where you been lately? I feel like I haven’t seen you since your graduation.” 

Ian claps him on the back, and Mickey notices that he’s not that much shorter than the man at all, meeting his embrace with surprising equilibrium. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been super busy with work and shit, saving up to pay off my tuition next year. What about you? How are the girls, how’s the bar?” 

“Still alive and kicking,” Kev grins, releasing Ian from the hug. “Amy said her first word the other day.”

“No way! What was it?”

“Well, V doesn’t believe me, but I swear to god she said ‘papa’. She’s probably just mad that I’m Amy’s favorite, though, cause she definitely didn’t say ‘mama’.”

“Congratulations, man.” 

“Thanks.” The grin doesn’t dwindle as the guy turns back to the grill to flip a couple of sausages before they start to smolder. “So, what can I get you, gents?”

“Just two hot dogs, preferably not burnt,” Ian says, then looks at Mickey quickly, forehead crinkled in question. “You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

Mickey snorts loudly. “Do I look like I’m vegetarian?”

“Not at all.”

“Two hot dogs coming up,” Kev confirms, clicking his tongs before plucking a few sausages from the grill and propping them in separate buns. As he hands the food over on two plates, he finally acknowledges Mickey’s presence. “Yo, wait a minute,” he starts, a look of recognition flickering over his face. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“This is Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says, taking his plate. Mickey wonders why he keeps being introduced by Ian and not by himself. “He’s my, um--” he pauses. “A friend.”

Mickey makes a point of disregarding the gooey feeling that swells in his chest.

Kev snaps his fingers in a sudden ‘ah-ha’ moment. “I got it! You’re the kid who works at the tattoo parlor on Halsted, right?”

Mickey can feel his eyebrows shoot up in surprise (which he’s starting to realize is his automatic reaction to almost everything). “Yeah, that’s right.”

“You tattooed me a few years ago, back when the place was just opening,” Kev continues, grin inflating even more. He tugs on one of his shirt sleeves and brandishes a realistic, dollar-green drawing of a skull on his bicep. Mickey doesn’t recognize it immediately, but he can imagine several designs just like it that are hanging on the walls of his parlor. 

“Oh,” is all he says, blinking. He’s recognized all the time because of his last name and his infamous family history of legal entanglement, but never because of his occupation. 

He doesn’t think people really care about who’s giving them their tattoo as long as they partially know what they're doing with a needle and ink cartridge, let alone remember their face.

Kev, apparently, is an exception. “You are one talented motherfucker,” he says, surprising Mickey even more. “I get compliments all the time about this baby.” He flexes his arm, tattoo rippling across his muscles.

“Shit,” Mickey says, mind at a point-blank. “Thanks, I guess?”

Kev’s teeth are so white they’re almost blinding. “Nah, I should be thanking you! Hopefully my hot dog can return the favor.”

Mickey glances at Ian helplessly, who is pressing his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh in amusement at the unintentional euphemism, then back at Kev. 

“I’m sure it will,” he says weakly. 

Let the record state that Mickey Milkovich has no fucking clue how to take a compliment. 

“Listen, we’ll catch you later after the fireworks, alright Kev?” Ian has taken the wheel again, nudging Mickey’s foot with the toe of his combat boot in some kind of unspoken signal that they should get going. To where, Mickey doesn’t know.

“For sure,” Kev replies happily, tucking the tongs in the pocket of his apron and clapping Ian on the back once more. “Happy Fourth, you guys! And keep up the good work, Milkovich.”

Ian smiles, says, “Happy Fourth,” back, then starts to steer Mickey away from the grill when he doesn’t respond to Kev with anything more dignified than a stare. 

As they retreat back to the grassy lot, paper plates clutched in their hands, Mickey can’t help but feel shell-shocked. No one has ever called him talented to his face other than Mandy, but there’s always teasing involved when it comes from her mouth. Mickey’s not sure what to make of it; he can feel his fight or flight response badgering him for attention, and the more he ignores it, the louder it gets.

It certainly doesn’t help when Ian abruptly leans over and whispers, “Looks like you’ve got a one-man fan club,” words tickling the air around Mickey’s earlobe. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps in reply, praying to god that the redhead can’t hear the way his heart thumps against his ribcage.


	3. part iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so long oops

The afternoon bleeds into evening at an excruciatingly slow pace, sun dipping so low that the shadows double in length and the tips of the trees turn a fiery shade of orange. The amount of people at the block party also doubles, almost the entire neighborhood honing in to see the illegal firework show that is scheduled for the end of the night. They are attracted like moths to a lamp, creeping towards the vacant lot to set up camp and divulge in the provided alcohol despite a lack of invitation.

Mickey has, unexpectedly, stayed near Ian for almost the entire party; they eat their hot dogs sitting next to each other in a pair of tattered lawn chairs, poking and prodding each other with snarky comments as they lick ketchup from their fingers. He then floats at the heels of the taller man as he makes his rounds and socializes with an endless stream of neighbors, Mickey only participating in conversations if he’s directly addressed. 

Truth be told, when he first gave in to coming to this stupid party, he didn’t think he’d be spending the night like this -- he thought he’d be with Mandy or Svetlana the whole time, but he finds himself only slightly perturbed when neither of them make a reappearance for several hours. 

In fact, Mickey doesn’t see Svetlana until well after the sun has tucked itself behind the horizon and streetlights have flickered on. 

Ian and Mickey are standing near the above-ground pool, nursing their third round of beer while Ian’s younger brother waxes poetic about a first-person-shooter game he wants on disc for his birthday. Mickey is only half listening, focused more on the haziness that is fraying the edge of his vision and the hypersensitive feel of Ian’s elbow unconsciously pressing against Mickey’s as they lean against the pool.

His attention is fully broken when Svetlana pops into view a few yards away, smiling goofily and gripping Yevegny’s hand as they walk. It becomes obvious that someone has officially broken out the hard liquor because she is a bumbling mess by the time she reaches Mickey and Ian, chattering and giggling to her son like he’s bound to understand everything she says.

When she sees them, she giggles even harder and waves sloppily. “Mikhailo! We found you!” Her words are slurred and more high-pitched than usual as she pulls Yevgeny closer and exclaims, “I knew we’d find you! Yev did not believe me, but we did it! I should be detective for CIA, no?”

Mickey sighs. She’s drunk off her ass. 

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks irritably, setting his beer down on the lip of the pool and stepping towards them.

“I could ask you same question,” she jabs back, briefly pointing her nose in the air before another giggle bubbles to the surface.

“Jesus Christ.” Mickey’s partially surprised that she’s as inebriated as she is, considering that she can drink him under the table any other day of the week. “Tell me you didn’t drink all the vodka on the fucking site, Svet.”

“Almost,” she claims proudly, “but nice black lady with the tits cut me off.”

“Veronica?” Ian pipes up curiously. 

Svet nods enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes, that one. Very pretty.” She sways a little in her place as she peers over Mickey’s shoulder to ask Ian, “Is she single?”

Ian’s green eyes go wide. “No, she’s uh, she’s married,” he responds, gripping his cup tighter.

“And so are you,” Mickey adds forcefully. “Remember?” 

“Ah, tomato tomahto,” she drawls, letting go of Yevgeny’s hand and throwing her own up in emphasis. “When has marriage ever stopped anything?” 

Mickey is rendered speechless. _Fucking Russians_ , he thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose and blowing air through his nostrils. 

Instead of dignifying her with a response, he just squats down and beckons his son forward with outstretched arms. “Come here, Yev, your mom needs to go find herself some water and sober up. You wanna stay with me for now?”

Yev, most likely not processing anything his father says, waddles forward and grabs Mickey’s thumb with an enthusiastic squeak. 

“Yeah, you’ll stay with me,” Mickey assures, pulling the boy closer and poking his little nose so he smiles. Svetlana blinks down at both of them from above, still swaying, probably processing Mickey’s words even less than her two-year-old son. 

“You,” Mickey says to her sharply as he circles his arms around the toddler, “you need to go find a fucking hose or something so you can wash all that vodka down, ‘cause I don’t plan on dragging your slammed ass home tonight. Got it?”

“Bitch,” Svetlana retorts darkly, but Mickey knows she’s got it. 

As she staggers away back into the crowd, mumbling under her breath, Mickey slots his hands under his toddler’s armpits and hoists him up, swinging him a little just for the sake of hearing that precious little laugh that he keeps falling in love with.

When he turns back to Ian, Yev’s arms latched onto his shoulder and face rosy with giddiness, the redhead is staring at him. And he’s fucking smiling. 

Mickey cocks a challenging eyebrow. “The fuck are you looking at?” 

The smile disappears in milliseconds. “Nothing.”

Yev murmurs something unintelligible into Mickey’s neck after taking a good long look at Ian, blue eyes blinking inquisitively, then sticks the tip of his thumb into his mouth and looks away.

“I know, bud, I think he’s funny looking too,” Mickey says as if he’s replying to the little boy’s blubbering, and he keeps one eye on Ian while he does so. “Kind of like a leprechaun, right?”

Yev sneezes in response.

“Good point, he is more like an alien. Think he’ll ever show us his spaceship?” 

Ian rolls his eyes. “Very funny,” he says before bringing his plastic cup to his lips and tipping his head back so he can swallow his last sip of alcohol. 

(Mickey definitely doesn’t watch the way his Adam’s apple dips and the way the sharp line of muscle in his neck protrudes as his chin lifts up; why in the world would he watch that?)

A loud voice from across the lot startles both Mickey and Ian, and they look towards the noise in sync; “Hey, losers!”

It’s Mandy, jumping and waving at them from the back porch of the Gallagher house. Lip is next to her, watching her color-streaked ponytail swing back and forth as she yells, 

“Fireworks are starting soon! Get over here!” 

Mickey exchanges a look with his red-haired counterpart, who just shrugs subjectively. 

“You heard the woman.”

Mickey polishes off the last of his beer, leaves the empty cup sitting on the rim of the pool, then the two of them navigate through the thicket of people with little ease, bumping shoulders and stepping on heels apologetically as their selective siblings wave them over. When they finally reach the porch, Mandy latches onto her brother’s arm and hauls him up the derelict staircase, Yevgeny flailing excitedly in his arms. 

“Come _on_ , shitstain, Lip said we can go up to the roof to get a better view, but they’re gonna start any second if you don’t hurry your ass up!” 

Ian makes a strange noise as he follows Mickey up the steps. “You found the key to the attic?” The question is addressed to Lip, who smirks. 

“No, but I did find a bobby pin. Hurry up, slowpoke.”

“Okay! Keep your pants on, Christ.”

Lip uses his shoulder to push open the back door to the house and leads the group in a single-file-line (like they’re in fucking _kindergarden_ ) through a humble but overcrowded kitchen. Mickey has to restrain himself from stopping in his tracks to soak in the sheer homeliness of the room; the place is a dump, he admits, but it’s a dump that’s got a wall full of baby pictures, a collection of report cards and finger paintings magnetically stuck to the fridge, and a stack of shoes lined up next to the door. 

He almost trips over a pile of folded laundry as his eyes latch onto a framed picture of an undeniably young Ian, a birds nest of red hair sticking out over his forehead and a great big smile that’s missing a couple of teeth stretching across his freckled face. He must be at least five or six in the photo, and he’s posing against a neutral blue backdrop like Mickey used to do on picture days when he was in elementary school.

Someone pushes his shoulder, and he spins his head to glare the real-life Ian. 

“I’m going!” he insists, stumbling up the stairs after Mandy before Ian can reprimand him or sneer at him for getting caught up in a dumb photograph, 

The staircase empties into a thin hallway with doors on every side and more clutter decorating the floorboards and walls; Mickey wonders to himself how the hell anyone gets by in this house without having extreme fits of claustrophobia every time they step into a new room.

Lip is cracking open a wooden trap-door in the ceiling that can’t lead anywhere but an attic, and Mickey almost leaps backward into Ian when the door falls open and a skinny ladder tumbles out with a ‘slam’.

Yevgeny startles and grips onto Mickey’s shirt, eyes as round as moons. Mickey rubs the little boy’s back to put him at ease, but finds himself asking out loud to no one in particular: “Is this safe?”

Lip’s already got one foot on the ladder, and he shoots Mickey a pompous look through the rungs. “Of course it is. Used to come up here all the time when we were little, no one’s ever fallen. At least not on purpose.”

Mandy grabs onto the ladder and hoists herself up as Lip climbs into the opening, grinning at her brother before pulling herself inside. 

“Yev will be fine,” she assures before her head disappears into the attic. 

Mickey scrutinizes the ladder while Yev clings to him, the paternal part of his brain ringing with alarms. Before he can even reach for a rung to follow Mandy, he feels a large hand touch his shoulder gently. 

“If he gets scared, we don’t have to stay up there,” Ian says quietly, and he’s close to Mickey again, too close, so close that Mickey can feel his hot breath against the back of his neck. 

Mickey feels goosebumps pop up on his arms and shoulders, and he hopes Ian can’t see them. “Okay.”

“Do you want to climb up first so I can hand him to you?” 

Mickey blinks, still not looking at the other man, but nods anyway. He circles the ladder and mutters a few reassurances into his son’s ear, hand still rubbing his back. Then he whispers, “I’m going to give you to Ian now, okay? Only for a few seconds, though, and then you’ll be back with me. Is that okay?”

Yev doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t shake his head either, so Mickey takes that as a good sign and reluctantly transfers the boy into Ian’s open arms. As soon as he’s settled, Ian’s hands cradling his head and his bum like Svetlana once taught Mickey to do, Ian meets Mickey’s eyes and jerks his chin towards the attic. 

“Go on, I’ve got him.”

Mickey hesitates.

Ian rolls his eyes. “ _Go_. I’m not going to drop him.”

Mickey huffs then steps up onto the lowest rung. “You better not.” 

Then, he’s climbing up the rickety ladder into an even ricketier attic that’s got to have at least a foot of dust coating the floor. Dim light spills in through an open skylight at the other end of the musty crawl space, and Mickey can see the tail-end of Mandy’s figure maneuvering onto the roof. 

Once he’s got his feet off the last rung, he swivels back around and peers down at Ian through the opening. He’s stroking Yevgeny’s hair with one hand and smiling like a dope, and that annoying thing in Mickey’s chest yanks at his heart again at the sight. 

To snap himself out of it, Mickey snaps his fingers at Ian and gets him to look up. 

“Hand him to me,” he demands.

Ian does just that, stretching his long arms out with his hands secured around Yev’s waist. Mickey doesn’t even have to bend down at all to take hold of the little boy, given that Ian is one tall motherfucker. Yev squeals with delight as Mickey heaves him back into his arms and squeezes his sides playfully. 

“Miss me?” he teases, raising Yev so he’s face-to-face with his sparkling puppy-dog eyes. 

The toddler’s face scrunches and he puts a hand on Mickey’s nose, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as he murmurs, “Dada.”

Mickey tries to conceal the monster of a smile he wants to break into, and does so with little avail; it’s worth it, though, because Yev smiles back and everything’s good. 

Until a certain beacon of red hair pops up next to them and scares the living shit out of Mickey. 

“Shit!” he stumbles back, skull narrowly missing a low-hanging beam of wood crossing the ceiling. “Warn a guy, will you?” 

Ian looks unimpressed, but there’s a small dimple in the side of his cheek that gives away his ultimate amusement. “I've been right behind you literally this entire time. Did you think I wasn’t going to come up?” 

Mickey opens his mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a grunt of annoyance because Ian makes a good point. 

“Whatever,” he mumbles, turning away from him and starting to edge his way towards the skylight. 

When he eventually makes it to the end of the attic and pokes his head through the aperture, he almost forgets to breathe entirely; the sky sprawls above him like a velvet chasm, deep, tenebrous, and never-ending. Stepping onto the roof is like emerging from a swimming pool, air flushing into his lungs as he inhales, breeze knocking feebly into him, every single star above him coming into sharp, undivided focus.

Mandy is perched on the peak of the roof, and Lip is settled just below her on the slope, leaning back between her legs and resting his arms against her bare thighs as they stare up into the black expanse. It’s sweet, Mickey grants, no matter how sour the thought of a boy between his little sister’s legs is to him.

Mandy glances at Mickey as soon as he steps fully through the skylight, and she pats the spot next to her in invitation. It’s tricky at first, slotting his heels against the grey shingles and stepping up the slope to get to her. He clutches Yevgeny for dear life, thinking about all the shit he’s bound to get from Svetlana if she catches them up here. He sits down carefully next to his sister on the crease of the rooftop and lodges Yev between his thighs with both arms encircling him like a human seatbelt. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Mandy sighs once Mickey’s finished situating himself into a comfortable position. The faint sounds of laughter and palaver float up from the street, and the palpitating hip-hop music is muffled like someone’s cranked the volume down. 

“Yeah,” Mickey replies, and it’s not a lie; it is pretty, looking down at the neighborhood -- his neighborhood -- from a bird’s eye view.

Straight ahead, he can see the bright lights of the high school football stadium only a few blocks away, glowing unrepentantly even though school’s been out of session for weeks. Off to the side, a long, dark railway track cuts through the community like the slash of a marker through a painting, stretching all the way into the heart of Chicago as if it’s an artery helping the city pump its blood. 

Mickey’s never been on a plane before, but if it’s anything like this, he thinks that he may not hate it; the rows and rows of houses that extend for miles in all directions seem a little more artificial, more surreal than they are from the ground, like Mickey is looking down at a plastic model of a city instead of a real one. 

Like if he stepped on it, it would crumble. 

Yev squirms in his lap, so he holds tighter and presses his mouth to the top of the little boy’s head, not planting a kiss or anything, just resting there. His hair smells like Svetlana’s lavender shampoo.

Ian appears a minute later, pulling himself through the open skylight and standing up straight against the nubilous backdrop and stretching his arms above his head like he’s just woken up from a long nap. 

Mickey might as well just jump off the fucking roof right now, because Ian is glowing -- literally glowing -- in contrast to the cloudless sky, hair fluttering in the breeze like a flame licking the air. He’s like a piece of ancient art, outlined with gold, every detail meticulously polished, and Mickey hates it. 

“Have they started yet?” Ian asks, climbing up the slanted roof and coming to prop himself next to Mickey.

“Nah, Fiona and Carl are still setting them up,” Lip answers, then points down at the street in front of them. 

Sure enough, the woman with the wild hair and the second-youngest Gallagher are scurrying around a line of different sized fireworks, all spaced out from one another, some placed in empty beer bottles, others squashed between stray bricks. 

“Have they done this before?” Mandy asks, echoing the very concern brewing in Mickey’s brain. 

“Third year in a row,” Ian replies nonchalantly. “So far, nothing’s been set on fire, no limbs have been lost, and no one’s been arrested, and that’s more than we can say for most Gallagher-related events.”

“Yeah, I’d say this is actually one of the safer antics of our household,” Lip agrees. “Thanksgiving, on the other hand, that’s worse than fucking trench warfare.”

Mickey and Mandy exchange the same look of _‘are you fucking kidding me these people are crazy’_ with each other. 

But, then again, it’s the Gallagher family; crazy is their forte.

The sounds of chatter from the party below suddenly die out, and Mickey looks down curiously. He notices that Fiona and Carl have concluded their preparation, and now Fiona is standing on a plastic lawn chair shouting to attract people’s attention. 

“Listen up!” Mickey hears her yell, and he finds himself leaning forward to see her a little better. “I’ve got a few ground rules that you all need to follow in order for this to work, so if you ain’t a stickler for rules, then you can help yourself out!” 

Lip exhales noisily and rests his head against Mandy’s stomach. “Here we go.” 

“Rule number one,” Fiona shouts, holding up her pointer finger like she’s stabbing the air, “no one touches those fireworks except for me and my brother, Carl. If I catch any other human being laying a finger on one of those babies, I will not hesitate to call the cops and blame said human for the purchase and possession of dangerous and illegal contraband.”

Mickey barks out a laugh. Mandy shushes him. 

“Rule number two,” she continues, raising another finger. “What happens in the South Side stays in the South Side. Do not ask where these fireworks came from, do not ask who bought them, where they were bought, or how they were bought.”

Mickey is immediately reminded of his father’s drug business; Terry’s main rule was always ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ so he could keep his ass out of the dog house. It worked for a long time, years, but someone finally asked, and someone finally told, and now Terry’s in the thick of it. Mickey’s beyond grateful for that. 

“And, finally, rule number three,” Fiona raises her last finger. “Enjoy the fucking show!” 

As if on cue, the first firework shoots into the night sky with a sharp whistle, then explodes in a ravishing myriad of color and a resounding _bang_. 

Mandy whoops with excitement, Ian laughs, Yevgeny shrieks, and Lip smiles. Mickey’s not sure what he does, but he can’t tear his eyes away.

Red and blue sparks whip the sky with exuberant passion, igniting the dark atmosphere and blooming like a flower against the curtain of stars as if it’s the first day of spring. People are clapping, yelling, and laughing from below, watching as Carl runs from firework to firework, lighting them each as he goes. They explode in succession, one after the other, each one bigger, brighter, and louder than the last, each one causing Mickey to rock backward and gawk towards the heavens. 

Yevgeny is bouncing energetically in Mickey’s arms, and Mickey doesn’t blame him; he’s excited, too. He’s giddy, he’s anxious, he’s everything there’s ever been and more. And he’s pretty sure it doesn’t have to do just with the fireworks.

Part of it could be that Ian’s shoulder is pushed against his, that their knees are knocking together, that Mickey can’t tell if it’s all accidental. 

He doesn’t want it to be. He really doesn’t want it to be.

Someone has turned up the music again, but instead of hip hop, Jimi Hendrix’s version of the national anthem pours unapologetically out of the speakers. Mickey is laughing -- he doesn’t know when he started, or why he’s laughing, but he’s laughing, and so is Ian, and Mandy might be, too, so the reason doesn’t really matter anymore. 

He feels intoxicated as the final series of sparks erupts against the sky, and he only looks away for a brief moment to look down at Yevgeny, then sideways at Ian. 

They wear the same exact expression, uncanny in similarity, eyes dilated with childlike awe and mouths hanging slightly unhinged. The light of the fireworks blossoms against their skin, casting them both in a polychrome, hypnagogic blaze, and Mickey suddenly wishes he had the ability to freeze time. If he did, he would freeze it at this very moment and never stop studying it. Never look away.

He almost has a heart-attack when Ian unexpectedly turns his head and looks straight at Mickey, gaze locked, eyes shining with intensity. 

His mouth doesn’t open, but he wants to say something; Mickey can tell. Mickey wants to say something, too, but no words come to him. Language seems out of reach -- insufficient.

So, instead, he stares back at Ian, praying to whatever higher power is looking down on him in that moment that Ian can learn to read his mind. 

Because Mickey thinks he’ll never be able to find the right words again.

* * *

Mickey doesn’t notice that Yevgeny has fallen asleep in his lap until long after the firework show ceases fire.

It makes sense, he supposes, given that the little boy normally falls asleep around six and it’s past nine o’clock at this point. He doesn’t know exactly how long the five of them have been up on the roof, but Mandy and Lip have been shamelessly flirting the entire time while Mickey and Ian watch them in quiet disdain, their bad pick-up-lines and unsubtle arm squeezes making Mickey’s stomach turn in on itself.

He hasn’t spoken directly to Ian much, either, only nodding in appropriate places whenever Ian makes a comment or asks a question. He’s afraid that if he does try to say something, he’ll end up saying too much. He’s not ready for that, yet. 

Which is why a wave of relief crashes over him when he feels his little boy’s head flop against his chest, blue eyes shuttered close and mouth slightly parted, because now he has an excuse to remove himself from his tense place next to Ian. 

“Mands, we should get going,” he says pointedly as he scoops Yev fully into his arms and starts to stand up. “Yev’s out like a light.” 

Mandy, who was in the middle of braiding a few tiny strands of Lip’s hair together, stills her hands and pouts at her brother. “Already?”

Mickey suppresses an eye-roll. “Yes, already. We need to find Svet, too, make sure she’s not blacked out in a ditch somewhere.”

“Or feeling up Veronica,” Ian adds, but it’s mostly to himself, gaze unfocused.

“Come on, Mick,” Mandy whines, “can’t you just let Yev sleep in one of the beds here for a little while? It’s not even ten yet.”

Mickey glares at her, but before he can bite back an argument, Ian jumps in.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he says lightly, standing up. “We’ve got a ton of extra space here since Lip’s moved out and Frank’s been off the grid.” His voice softens audibly, but Mickey doesn’t look at him. “He could use my bed, if you want.”

Mandy’s eyes are round and pleading, and even though Mickey knows she’d have no problem leaving if it weren’t for Lip, he falls for it anyway. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, and Mandy lights up like a Christmas tree. “But we’re leaving at ten! No later.” 

“Yeah, whatever, Mom,” Mandy teases light-heartedly. Suddenly, she’s pushing herself up from the peak of the roof and pulling Lip beside her. “C’mon, let’s go raid your fridge. I’m starving.”

Lip goes along with her, shrugging indifferently at Mickey as he glares at them. They slip back through the skylight together, smirking and jostling each other wantonly as their heads duck into the attic. 

“Do you think ‘raid the fridge’ is code for ‘fuck like rabbits’?” Ian asks out loud, and Mickey physically cringes. 

“Dude, that’s my little sister you’re talking about,” he moans in disgust, putting one foot through the skylight. 

“Just because she’s younger than you doesn’t mean she isn't getting around,” Ian retaliates with far too much causality lacing his words. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Am I wrong?”

Mickey chooses to evade the question by stooping into the attic fully, scrunching his nose as a plume of dust puffs into the air where his feet land. It’s easier getting down the ladder with Yev than it was getting up, but even as both Mickey and Ian finish descending into the low-lit hallway, Ian doesn’t bother closing the attic door. 

“This way,” he says, guiding Mickey towards a door at the end of the hall. 

Ian’s room is quite large, all things considered, but it still manages to feel cramped with the three separate beds squeezed against opposite walls. Mickey eyes the dilapidated bunk bed and the smattering of military posters that decorate the walls warily, holding Yev a little closer to his chest. 

“This one’s mine,” Ian is saying, plopping down on a tiny twin bed in the near corner. The ceiling above the bed is slanted, Ian’s hair is brushing it softly, and Mickey wonders how the hell he manages to fit there every night, let alone sleep. “If you think he might roll around in his sleep or something then he can go in Liam’s old crib, but it’s packed away in Deb’s room.”

Mickey shakes his head a little. “No, this should be fine. He doesn’t sleep in a crib anymore.”

Ian’s lips quirk, and he stands. “Okay, cool.” 

When Mickey hesitates to put the little boy down, the redhead’s gaze softens even more, and Mickey wonders how the hell he keeps doing that. 

“You could just go home, you know,” he says quietly, hands returning to his pockets. “No one’s forcing you to stay, and I can always walk Mandy back later if she’s too hammered to do it herself. It’s up to you.” 

Mickey hates how sincere he sounds, and he immediately feels like an asshole for acting like he wants to leave. 

“No,” he decides, coming to stand over the twin bed, “I’ll stay.”

Ian raises his eyebrows.

“I want to stay,” Mickey tries again. This choice of words seems to satisfy Ian to a better extent. 

“Good,” he says. He stands up from the bed and pats the indent left behind in the mattress. “Go ahead and make him comfortable. All the sheets and stuff were cleaned yesterday, but feel free to grab more pillows from one of the other beds if you need them.” Then, “You fancy another beer?” 

Mickey snorts at the word ‘fancy’. “Sure, Queen Elizabeth, I’ll take one more.”

Ian grins. “I’ll go grab some.” He turns on his heel and slips out of the room, leaving the door partially open behind him. 

Mickey watches him go for a long moment before returning his attention to the little boy in his arms. A trail of drool shines around one corner of Yev’s mouth, and his eyelids are fluttering gently, making Mickey smile to himself. 

He delicately sets the toddler down on the bed, pulling one of the numerous throw blankets up to his chin and situating a pillow beneath his head. He’s still wearing his little velcro sneakers, so Mickey unstraps them and places them gingerly on the carpet next to the bed.

He looks smaller than usual, all wrapped up in the center of the mattress that’s ten times his size, but he’s serene. He’s a quiet kid, one that doesn’t complain often, and Mickey often questions how something so peaceful could come from the two most hotheaded people on the planet. 

“He is like his _babushka_ ,” Svetlana had said when he was first born. Even though Mickey had never met her mother, and most likely never will, he listened anyway. Chose to believe her. “Untroubled, always happy. Never had bad thing to say about anyone, even when _moy otets_ hurt her or made her sad. She was at peace, zen.”

Mickey wonders what that’s like; to be completely, utterly at ease, even in the context of a cruel household and an unforgiving husband. 

He never wanted kids -- he’s still wrapping his head around the fact that he has one -- specifically because he was afraid of how his personality, his wellbeing, would fuck the kid for life. He grew up in a cruel household with an unforgiving father, and he’s messed up beyond belief. He never wanted that for anyone, especially not someone like Yev. 

If ignorance is bliss, then Mickey is happy to keep Yev in a state of ignorance forever and ever, sheltered and safe from the sadistic condition of reality. He never wants his little boy -- his tiny fucking angel -- to lose his sense of serenity. His “zen”. 

If that happened, Mickey would never forgive himself. 

“Everything good in here?” 

Ian’s voice spooks Mickey, and he swivels around to see the other man leaning against the doorframe, two cans of beer and a crumpled paper bag in his hands. Mickey’s immediately uncomfortable, not knowing how long he’s been standing there watching Mickey watch Yevgeny. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “Everything’s fine.” 

Ian smiles fondly, head tipping to the side so he can see Yevgeny over Mickey’s shoulder. “He’s a cute kid,” he says earnestly. 

Mickey nods. “Yeah.”

The smile doesn’t go away, but it flickers with inquisition. “How old is he?”

“About two and a half.” 

“Right, I figured. You had him when you were pretty young, then?” 

Mickey’s head snaps up. “What?”

Ian has stopped looking at Yev, and his green eyes are boring back into Mickey, drilling into him with knee-jerking intensity. “You’re his father, aren’t you?”

Mickey splutters, drawing his shoulders back in confusion. “What?! How do you-- why do you think that?”

Ian’s expression dims to something more serious, stoic, and almost remorseful. “I’m sorry, I assumed. It’s just-- the way you act around him, and, and your eyes, I just figured--”

“My eyes?” Mickey’s voice nearly cracks. “What about my eyes?”

Ian definitely looks apologetic now, and he’s shrunk back against the doorframe. “You have the same eyes as him,” he says, slow and timid. 

Mickey’s jaw feels unhinged as he stares at the other man, throat dry. 

“Blue eyes,” Ian continues. “Like, ice blue. I’m sorry for assuming, but he just looks so similar to you.”

Mickey opens his mouth, but he has nothing prepared to say. It’s not like Ian’s wrong -- far from it, really. 

“Sorry,” Ian says again. 

“No,” Mickey starts hesitantly, retracting his metaphorical claws. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. It’s-- you’re right. He’s mine. I’m… yeah.” 

“Oh. Okay.”

Mickey shifts his feet awkwardly. “That’s not weird, is it?”

Ian’s brow furrows. “Why would it be weird?”

“I don’t know! Some people just think it’s weird that Svet and I are so young, and they make fucking pissy comments about ‘kids these days’ or they call us irresponsible, and it’s just-- it makes my blood boil,” Mickey bites, but his words have lost their heat. If anything, he sounds defeated, strangled. “It’s not fucking weird that I have a kid, so if you think it is then you can go right ahead and fuck off--”

“Woah, slow down.” Mickey doesn’t realize he’s stepped forward until Ian’s hand comes up, stopping him in his tracks. He still looks earnest, sincere, but also a little confused at Mickey’s whiplash of emotion. “I don’t think it’s weird you have a kid.” 

Mickey blinks. “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.” 

“Oh.” 

Ian lowers his hand, then adjusts the beers and paper bag so he’s holding them better. “There’s a lot of weird, shitty things in this world, but having a kid isn’t one of them.” He drops his voice, “I think it’s sweet, actually. That you care for him like that.” 

Mickey glances over at the little boy’s slumbering figure nestled tranquilly into Ian’s throw blanket. 

“Oh,” he says, chest rising and falling deeply. 

“Now, should we let him sleep and polish these off?” Ian holds up the cans, wicked grin reappearing. 

Mickey nods, casting a last look at his son before following Ian back into the hallway and gently shutting the door behind him. 

They crawl back into the attic and through the open skylight, but this time they’re alone on the roof. It feels bigger, somehow, without Mandy and Lip’s obnoxious presence, and the wind has picked up significantly.

The amount of people down in the lot and on the street has dwindled, only a few stragglers left behind to finish off the last of the keg and start to round up lawn chairs. The music has been turned off completely, and the smell of leftover smoke reigns strong in the night air from the demolished line of fireworks. 

Instead of perching on the fold of the roof, like before, Ian plops down towards the bottom of the slope so his heels are brushing against the trim. He places the beers upright in the empty gutter, then unrolls and starts to paw through his paper bag. 

Mickey sits next to him, being careful not to press to close, leaving a solid few inches between their legs. 

“What’s in the bag?” he grunts, watching as Ian digs deeper. 

Ian smirks and pulls out a smaller ziplock baggie filled with at least an ounce of loose-leaf weed. 

“A little lady I like to call Mary Jane,” he jokes, setting the ziplock down then fishing back into the brown bag for joint papers. 

Mickey can’t help the grin that stretches across his face; his night is about to get a whole lot better. “You sly bastard,” he says, reaching over to pluck his own paper from Ian's fingers. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Ian slaps his hand away. “This is Lip’s expensive shit and if he finds out we’re using it he’ll go ballistic. You good to share one?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. _Fucking Gallaghers_. “Yeah, whatever. Make it quick, though.” 

They both fall silent for the next few minutes, Ian concentrating solely on rolling his joint just right and Mickey watching him wordlessly. He notices the way Ian’s brows are furrowed and the way the tip of his tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth, almost like he’s working on an essay or a really difficult math equation. It’s almost endearing to watch him twist and seal the ends with practiced dexterity, holding up the finished joint like he’s brandishing an award. 

“Ta-da!”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a work of art, whatever. Got a light?” Mickey prods.

“Patience, young padawan,” Ian replies evenly before taking out a little blue lighter from his back pocket and tossing it to Mickey.

Mickey gapes at him after catching it in his open hands. “Did you just quote fucking _Star Wars_?” 

“Maybe.”

“You liar!” Mickey exclaims. “You said you’ve only watched _Bloodsport_.”

“I never said that,” Ian retorts, “I just said I watched it a lot, not exclusively.”

“Okay, well congratulations, now you’re not only uncultured, but you’re also a fucking nerd,” Mickey says, completely deadpan as he flicks the lighter on and cups his hand around the flame. 

“I’m not a nerd for watching _Star Wars_ , everyone watches _Star Wars_.” 

“I don’t!” Mickey defends haughtily, leaning forward and holding the lighter to the tip of the joint in Ian’s fingers. 

“Aw, poor you,” Ian coos unsympathetically, eyes trained on the flame as it catches on the paper, “Harrison Ford just doesn’t do it for you?”

“Harrison ain’t the problem,” Mickey switches the lighter off, “it’s the plot I have an issue with. They made what's-his-face basically tongue-fuck his sister during the first movie. His sister!” 

“So you have seen _Star Wars_ , then.” Ian grins wider. 

“Fuck you, that is not the point.” 

“Now who’s the liar?” Ian lifts the joint to his mouth and takes a deep, balanced inhale, eyes glinting with gaiety and cheeks hollowing.

Mickey shakes his head, tamping down a laugh as he reaches for the joint. Ian passes it to him steadily, whistling as the first torrent of smoke trickles out from between his lips. 

Mickey takes a generous hit when the joint is finally in his fingers, closing his eyes as the familiar taste sweeps into his mouth and bleeds into his lungs.

“Fuck,” he says appreciatively, tipping his head back and blowing out a stream of smoke straight into the sky. 

He hears the telltale sound of aluminum cracking open, and he opens one eye in time to see Ian take a long swig of beer from one of the cans. He wipes his mouth when he finishes, then hiccups. 

“You want?” he asks Mickey, holding up the second can. 

Mickey shakes his head, twirling the joint between his pointer finger and thumb. “Nah, I shouldn’t get crossed tonight if I’m taking the kid home.” 

“Oh, come on, party pooper,” Ian nudges his knee with the toe of his boot. “We’ll shotgun, fifty-fifty.”

“I really shouldn’t,” Mickey says, no matter how tempting the idea is. 

“Please?” Ian pouts, and he mimics Mandy’s signature puppy-dog eyes. “You won’t get drunk off half a beer unless you weigh like, ten pounds.”

Mickey hesitates.

Ian shifts and bats his eyelashes, words dripping with demur as he says, “I dare you.” 

_Well shit_ , Mickey thinks. If he were anyone else, he’d have an easier time turning down the challenge. But he’s not someone else. He’s a Milkovich, and Milkoviches don’t back down from dares, even if they really want to. 

His shoulders slump and he gives in to his gut. “Fine. But I get to go first.” 

“Be my guest,” Ian beams, trading the can for the joint then passing over a small penknife. 

“If I’m crossed by the time I gotta go home, I’m fully blaming you,” he warns before switching the knife open and stabbing the beer can. 

He can feel Ian’s eyes trained on him as his mouth latches onto the aluminum and he drops the knife, cracking open the lid and taking a few hearty gulps of alcohol before transferring it into the other boy’s hands. He grabs it eagerly, and Mickey doesn’t fully let go until Ian’s secured it against his own lips. He leans back, watching the redhead tilt his head and swallow down the rest of the beer, can crinkling under his firm grip. 

He finishes, tosses the can aside, then burps. 

“Charming,” Mickey remarks. 

Ian just tosses a shit-eating grin back at him, then falls against the roof with a blissful sigh. Mickey follows suit, letting himself recline against the weather-worn pantiles.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve shotgunned since the tenth grade,” he realizes aloud, skin buzzing as the alcohol begins to permeate into his bloodstream. 

“You’re an old man,” Ian sniggers. He holds out the joint again, tip glowing against the cloudless sky, and Mickey takes it from him. 

They’re quiet for a while, letting the hot evening air settle against their skin and seep into their bones as they pass the joint back and forth. In the near distance, Mickey can hear a siren; it’s fast and clipped, recognizable as a police siren and not an ambulance or fire truck.

He finds himself marveling at the sky for the second time that night, but this time it’s more than the large, velutinous cavity he’d seen earlier. This time it is churning with obscurity, layers of blacks and dark blues swirling together and weaving into a large, shimmering, cloak of darkness. He’s reminded of a famous painting -- the blue one by Van Gogh, with the stars and the trees and the rolling hills. He understands it now, the way the paint curls and flows together to create a bigger picture.

He wonders if Van Gogh was high when he painted it.

“You gonna ask me, or no?”

Mickey tilts his head to look at Ian’s profile in confusion. “Ask you what?”

Ian blows out a stream of smoke. “Truth or dare.”

“What?”

“I dared you to shotgun, and you did.” Ian still doesn’t look over. “It’s my turn, now. Ask me.”

Mickey laughs, but it quickly turns into a cough. “Are we in the fucking third grade?” 

“Yes. Ask me.” 

Mickey looks back up at the sky, grinning. “Okay,” he hums, “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Ian answers automatically. 

“Lame,” Mickey complains, but goes on to ask, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Green.”

Mickey groans. “Of course it is, you fucking Irish bitch.”

“Hey!” Ian elbows him, then rolls his head to the side to glare at Mickey. “Liking what I like doesn’t make me a bitch.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, fucking leprechaun. My turn.”

“Fine. Truth or dare?” 

Mickey smirks. “Truth.”

“Hypocrite,” Ian elbows him again, sharper this time. “What’s _your_ favorite color?” 

Mickey squirms away from him, but not before he can kick the other boy’s ankle in retaliation. “Um,” he pauses, thinking. He doesn’t really have a favorite color. He likes them all if he’s being honest. He gives Ian a nonpartisan look and says the first color that pops into his head. “Red.” 

“Hm,” Ian snorts, then reaches up to run a hand through his hair absentmindedly. “Interesting.” 

Mickey rolls himself onto his side, elbow digging uncomfortably into the edge of a shingle as he props his head on his hand and looks down at Ian. “Truth or dare?” 

“Truth.”

“Lame,” he repeats, but goes along with it. He’s not even sure what dares they could get away with from the rooftop without breaking any limbs. “Who’s your favorite sibling?” 

Ian glares at him. “Unfair,” he says before taking another hit. “But I’d have to say Liam.”

“The tiny black one?”

“Yup.” 

“Fucking cop-out, he’s like five years old!”

“So?” 

“So of course he’s your favorite, he hasn’t been alive long enough to do anything wrong.” 

“Nah, I just like him more.” Ian’s head lolls to the side like it’s disjointed from his neck. “He keeps it real. Maintains peace.”

“Okay, Gandhi, whatever you say.”

Ian ignores him. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“How long have you been with Svetlana?”

“Easy,” Mickey says. “We got fake hitched two years ago.”

Ian chokes on his smoke. “You _what_?”

Mickey brushes him off. “Long story. Homophobic dad, fake wedding, real kid.”

The redhead’s eyes boggle. “What the fuck? Don’t you live with her, though?”

“Who, Svetlana?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey nods inattentively. “Yeah. Might not be real married to her, but she’s cool. She makes good spaghetti and helps with the rent, so she stays with us. We don’t do any of that couple-y shit unless we’re around my dad, and he’s in prison right now, so we’re basically off the hook.”

“I…” Ian trails off at a complete loss for words. “Fuck. Okay.”

“Moving on,” Mickey continues, more than happy to drop the subject of his fucked up love life. “Truth or dare?”

“Um,” Ian pauses. “Truth.”

“How did I ever see that coming?”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay, how long was your last serious relationship?”

Ian shoots Mickey a weird look. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“Same reason you cared about Svet and I,” Mickey answers. “Curiosity.”

“Fine. A month.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus, you must be a shitty boyfriend.”

“Shut the fuck up, I am a phenomenal boyfriend. He was just too clingy for me, so I had to let him go. Truth or dare?” 

Mickey flashes his teeth, covering up the fact that his stomach just dropped to his knees at the word ‘he’. “Dare.”

“Okay.” Ian sits up on the back of his elbows so he can look at Mickey fully, eyes dilated and dark under the dim light of the streetlamps below. “I dare you to tell me the meaning of my tattoo.” 

Mickey freezes. 

Ian hadn’t said one word about the tattoo all day, and Mickey assumed it was because he either didn’t like it or he forgot it existed. Mickey certainly hadn’t forgotten about it; it was at the back of his mind all evening, nagging him relentlessly, the vain part of his mind yearning for feedback, for validation. 

Part of him wants to crack Ian’s mind open like an egg and sift through the pieces until he finds exactly what Ian thinks of the artwork. But he also really, really doesn’t want to know. He wants to leave it as neutral as possible; the no-man’s-land of tattoos. Fucking Switzerland. 

So, instead of answering Ian’s dare, Mickey asks the stupidest question he can possibly think of. “Which one?” 

Ian’s knee bashes into his own, and Mickey yelps in pain. 

“Fuck, Gallagher!” 

“You know which one, asshole. Tell me,” he demands, sitting up. His hair is sticking every which way, and his eyes are narrowed. 

“Alright, Jesus, I will.” Mickey rubs at his wounded kneecap, trying not to think about the bruise that will probably blossom there tomorrow morning. “Promise not to bash my knee in again?” 

Ian cocks his eyebrow. “I can’t promise anything, Mickey.” 

Mickey ignores the way his heart soars at the sound of his name coming from Ian’s mouth. “Why do you want to know so badly?”

“Because you didn’t answer me when I asked you the first time,” Ian implores stiffly, folding his arms over his torso and closing himself off. Mickey assumes he’s referring to the brief text conversation they had months prior. “It’s a simple fucking question.” 

Mickey disagrees, but doesn’t say so out loud. 

“Well, for one, it’s not my original design,” he starts, steam trailing from his nostrils. “You gotta know that first.”

“I figured,” Ian says, and it sounds more resigned. Like he’s actually curious in Mickey’s answer. 

Mickey takes a deep breath and lets his eyes close for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He’s not nearly high enough for this conversation. 

“Keith Haring,” he says simply, turning onto his back and falling against the roof once more.

“What?”

“Keith Haring,” he repeats, louder. 

Ian remains poker-faced. “Who the fuck is that?”

“He’s the original artist, dumbfuck.”

Ian blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Didn’t think you would’ve,” Mickey stares straight ahead, allowing his gaze to unfocus as he continues to talk. “He’s a street artist from New York, died in the nineties because of AIDS.” 

“Oh.” There’s an edge to Ian’s voice now, but Mickey doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to look at him.

“He did all sorts of shit, but mostly murals and political cartoons, stuff like that,” he explains, doing his best to draw whatever information he has about the artist from the depths of his muddled brain. “He was a fucking rebel. Used the city as his canvas instead of a piece of paper, like the rest of us lowlifes.” He snickers to himself. “Painted on train stations and alleyways and shit. Super opinionated and everything, but laid-back. Let life throw whatever it had at him.” 

“So, what does he have to do with my tattoo?” Ian asks slowly, visibly turning the information over in his head. 

Mickey closes his eyes again. “He was a rebel,” he reiterates, “but he was also a fucking hero. Addicted to saving people’s lives the only way he knew how, through art.” 

Ian says nothing, so Mickey continues, envisioning the work he’d pressed into the redhead’s skin in his mind as he speaks.

“Your tattoo is about that. That heroic complex. Two different people working their asses off to hold up one idea. One piece of a puzzle.”

When Mickey opens his eyes, Ian is staring down at him, a disloyal strand of hair criss crossing in front of his eyes. “You mean the heart?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nods. “The heart.”

Ian looks dazed and fuzzy, like the gears in his mind won’t stop rotating. 

“What does any of that have to do with me, though?”

Mickey shrugs. “You said you wanted something cultured.”

“Yeah, but-- a street artist from New York?”

“Yeah.” Mickey takes another hit, then releases the smoke slowly from his lungs as he says, “Culture comes in all shapes and sizes, Gallagher.”

Ian doesn’t respond. Mickey glances at him.

The redhead is staring at his feet, scrutinizing them as one of his big hands rubs the back of his neck right where the tattoo is. Mickey watches him for a long while, letting his eyes droop as his limbs get fuzzier and fuzzier. Ian is still glowing against the dark sky like a jack-o-lantern, and Mickey wonders if he’s imagining it. He probably is.

Carefully, he tears his eyes away from the other man, and chooses to look out at the sprawling city below, twinkling in the dark atmosphere. 

He’s never realized how crowded Chicago is until now. 

The buildings are squished together like sardines in a jar, packed into a tight grid. It’s almost as if the metropolis had been rushed into construction at the last minute, not one patron or city planner considering if there would be any room for fresh air. 

Mickey understands, now, why he’s always felt suffocated by this place. Like he was born in a chokehold, the tight arms of his home closed around his neck, commandeering his breath. He understands why he’s felt like he’s been walking on eggshells for nearly twenty years. If he moves, he chokes. If he doesn’t, he’s stuck forever. 

At least, that’s what he thought; now, sitting next to Ian on this rooftop, humidity and smoke hanging heavily in the air, he’s not so sure. 

Now, with the remaining smell of singed chemicals and barbeque tickling his nose. Now, with his heart in his fucking hands as he explains to this dumb boy with his dumb red hair and long legs why he chose to use this dumb design to ink onto his skin forever. Now, he thinks the chokehold might be loosening. 

Slowly breaking into Mickey’s thoughts, Ian speaks up. “It’s about love.”

“Hmm?”

“My tattoo.” The redhead refocuses on Mickey, eyes sharpening. “It’s about love.” 

Mickey nods lethargically. “Could be.”

“But,” Ian hesitates, and Mickey can practically hear the grinding of the nuts and bolts in Ian’s brain drilling together, “there are two people holding up one heart. Why are there two?”

Mickey exhales. “Because sometimes one isn’t enough.” 

All of a sudden, Mickey’s getting punched in the arm. 

“Ow!” He shoots up, grabbing his forearm and yanking it out of the way before another blow can land on him. “Jesus--! What the fuck was that for?!”

Ian’s expression is hard, stony, and as dark as the sky above him. “You’re a fucking prick,” he spits, hands clenching.

“What are you--”

“You gave me a fucking tattoo about _love_ , you asshole,” Ian barks, and Mickey scurries backward on instinct despite the throbbing in his arm. 

“So? What’s the fucking problem?!” 

Ian crawls closer even as Mickey draws back, and suddenly, he has an arm on either side of Mickey’s torso, rage radiating off his skin in waves. 

“You think you’re sly, don’t you?” He growls, putting a large hand on Mickey’s chest and pinning him roughly against the pantiles. 

Mickey grunts as his spine slams into the roof, and he’s disoriented, confused. “Gallagher, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Ian is practically on top of him, face curled into a snarl and eyes red from the weed. “I don’t need your fucking love,” he says, low into Mickey’s ear. 

Mickey feels helpless, fastened underneath Ian. Normally, he would fight back, clock the idiot in the side of the head, knee him in the groin. But his limbs refuse to work as he stares up into those green, green eyes, dark with an indescribable amount of emotion. 

“I never said you did,” he says quietly, and it’s almost a whisper. 

They stare at each other, Mickey’s heart lodging itself in his throat as the heat from Ian’s hand smolders against his chest, the material from his t-shirt doing very little to ease the burn. Ian is breathing heavily, and a muscle in his jaw is jumping with tension. 

“You’re a stranger,” he says as if he’s realizing it for the first time, and his fingers curl into Mickey’s shirt. “I don’t know you at all.”

“I don’t know you, either,” Mickey replies, and his voice is startlingly gentle. He doesn’t want it to be, but it just is. “I’d like to, though.”

Something in Ian’s face changes. “You would?”

“Yes,” Mickey says, and he sounds earnest. It’s like an alien has taken over his body and is talking for him, figuring out exactly what to say. How to say it. 

Fuck, he’s stoned.

Apparently, his words are working, because Ian is loosening up, coming down from whatever angry trip he just experienced and sitting back. He’s still half on-top of Mickey, his legs bracketing the shorter boy’s hips, but he doesn’t seem to register it. Instead, he continues to stare.

“I’d like to know you, too,” he admits, face tinted pink under the white light of the half-moon. 

“Yeah?” Mickey clambers onto his elbows, wincing at the resonating pain in his spine as he sits up. 

Ian’s head moves sluggishly up and down as he murmurs, “Yeah.”

“Then let’s fuckin’ do it,” Mickey says, breathless, not breaking eye contact. “Get to know each other.”

“Okay,” Ian replies, but he doesn’t move. 

They sit there, Mickey’s eyes skewed up at Ian’s slumped figure, winded and dazed, until Mickey finally asks, “You gonna get off me anytime soon?”

Ian exhales gradually. “I don’t know.”

“Why’s that?”

His hand is still on Mickey’s chest, no longer pressing down, but rather laying limp and coiled into the fabric of Mickey’s shirt. As he speaks, his fingers start to clench, bunching the shirt together. “Because I might want to kiss you.”

Mickey’s heart screeches to a halt in his chest, and his lungs feel like they’re about to cave in. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. He’s like a fucking fish out of water. 

Instead of forming a coherent sentence, the word “oh” tumbles out of his mouth like a boulder rolling down a cliff. 

Ian tenses again. “Is that okay?” he asks, voice only a notch above a whisper.

Mickey is at a loss for words. 

“You’re fucking trashed, man,” he points out feebly, and he’s not wrong, but his words fall flat anyway.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Ian’s gaze stays fixed and levelheaded despite the reddish tint in the whites of his eyes. He’s more stoned than Mickey is, yet his words are clear and brazen.

Mickey can feel every ounce of self-control leaking out of his bones as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.” 

Then, his fucking world explodes.

Ian’s hand grips the front of his shirt and the other one latches onto the nape of his neck, and suddenly he’s being pulled up, lips crashing into Ian’s with the force of a blow to the gut.

Mickey hardly has a moment to react before he’s opening his mouth and letting Ian plunge over him like a wave, drowning him in warmth and heat as their lips collide. It’s as brief as it is fierce, the taste of beer and marijuana fresh on Ian’s tongue as he dips his head to better accommodate Mickey’s mouth slotting against his. 

Ian kisses with the same energy that he punches, and for a moment, Mickey forgets about everything that isn’t red hair or green eyes; his hands come up to hold Ian’s face and card through the hair at the back of his head, nails digging into his skull as he’s pulled closer, closer. 

It ends as quickly as it begins. 

They break apart far too soon, breath billowing, faces red, and realization hits Mickey like a ton of bricks. 

_Fuck._

He wants to jump up, yell, scream, freak out at Ian for kissing him. He wants to thrash and kick and escape, run home, shut his door and never come out. 

But he doesn’t.

He lies still as Ian unwinds his fingers from his shirt and releases his head, letting Mickey fall back against the roof. Then, he rolls off, knees stretching out as he flops down parallel to Mickey, chest heaving, heat diminishing. 

His voice is rough and dry as he says, “Thanks.”

Mickey, still scrambling to catch his breath, croaks out, “What for?”

“For letting me do that.”

Mickey is silent. The THC is finally getting to his brain, he thinks, making his skull feel light and his limbs weightless and numb. 

He expects the world to have stopped in its tracks; for the sky to have stopped spinning, for the noise to have dulled, for the wind to have stopped blowing. But nothing halts. The stars are still prickling with light from above, the horns of cars and sirens are still wailing in the distance, the air is still droopy and humid. 

“You’re welcome,” Mickey says finally, letting his leg loll to the side and press into Ian’s thigh. The point of contact is grounding and hot. 

Ian tilts his head to look at Mickey. “Can we do it again sometime?”

A hint of a smile graces Mickey’s face subconsciously, and his eyes drift close. “Sure, whatever,” he replies. 

Ian nudges his leg. “Like, right now?”

A laugh escapes from Mickey’s lungs, but he keeps his eyes closed, not fully recovered from his momentary panic. “I thought you didn’t need my love, asshole.”

“I don’t!” Ian exclaims, nudging him harder. “But I’m tipsy, and you’re here, and I like you, I think. Even though I’m a little mad at you.”

Mickey opens one eye. “You like me?”

“Yes, douchebag, I like you.” Ian’s mouth is pressed into a comical frown, and it reminds Mickey of the face Yevgeny makes when he’s frustrated at a character on one of his kid tv shows. 

Mickey shuffles so he’s on his side, facing the redhead. “But do you like-like me?” He bats his eyelashes and purses his lips playfully. 

“Fuck you,” Ian’s frown cracks and he honest-to-god giggles at Mickey’s words. 

Mickey smirks. “Well, in that case…” He trails off and reaches up to hold Ian’s chin with his fingers, letting the pad of his thumb swipe over the other man’s lower lip. 

Ian parts his lips and watches Mickey closely, jutting out his jaw in invitation. 

Mickey lets his hazy, intoxicated mind take the lead this time, pressing his mouth against Ian’s with much less gusto and more languid ease. He slips his hand around Ian’s neck so his thumb brushes the skin just underneath his earlobe, and Ian responds eagerly, grabbing hold of Mickey’s wrist and leaning forward. 

It’s not chaste, but it’s also not rushed or overzealous; Mickey takes his time, trying not to knock their teeth together as his tongue is granted entrance into Ian’s mouth. It’s slow, comfortable, emulating the feel of the evening more accurately than before. 

When they eventually part, Ian ducks his head and goes straight for Mickey’s neck. Mickey feels like he’s in high school again, tilting his head back and letting Ian suck on his jaw, his ear, the spot just below his Adam’s apple, knowing in the back of his mind that he’s going to leave a mark. 

He wasn’t much of a romantic in high school, but the few dudes he’d gotten involved with on a fuck-only basis had been persistent in leaving behind bite marks and hickeys. Teenagers were strange, that way, wanting so badly to mark their territory, leave behind their signature. Whenever Mickey would come home sporting a neck full of bruises, a drunken Terry would slap him on the back and mutter “good going, son” with a hint of screwed-up paternal pride. 

If only he knew.

A tiny, breathy gasp escapes from Mickey’s mouth as Ian bites into the skin above his collarbone, not hard enough to be painful, but enough for Mickey to tangle his hands in the redhead’s hair and sling his head back to give him better access. Ian smells like weed and shampoo and sweat, but Mickey doesn’t mind; his hands glide down Ian’s head and cling at the hem of his t-shirt, holding him firmly.

He wants to be closer. Wants to go further. But something stops him.

Mickey is abruptly reminded of the fact that his very own son is fast asleep in the house below them, not being watched by anyone, and the fact that his sister and fake-wife are probably looking for him. That, or they don’t give two shits about him. Either way, it pulls him out of his thoughts enough to find himself gently guiding Ian’s mouth away. 

The redhead’s eyes are cloudy as he’s pushed back, and he rubs his hand across his mouth breathlessly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mickey says honestly, shifting as he slides his hands down and off Ian’s neck, “I just remembered I should be getting home.”

“Are you sure?” Ian sits back, blinking. His hair is ruffled and the collar of his shirt is stretched and tugged down from where Mickey’s hands were toying with it, and the very sight of him makes Mickey’s blood rush to all the wrong places. 

He swallows, forcing his face to cool down. “Yeah, I need to get Yev home before he wakes up and freaks. And I need to make sure Svetlana isn’t dead.” 

Ian seems disappointed, but not angry as he nods slowly. “Okay, yeah. No problem.”

“Sorry,” Mickey says sincerely, because he is. He’d stay on this roof forever if he had the option. 

“No, don’t worry about it.” Ian runs a hand through his hair, then flexes his legs out as he glances down at the mess of beer cans and joint papers. “My siblings are probably looking for me, too.” 

“Right,” Mickey says. He watches Ian slowly stand up, dust his jeans off, then hold out his hand for Mickey to take. 

Mickey grabs it and hauls himself up, trying not to stumble as his feet slip against the tiling. Ian grips his hand, and they make eye contact for a long moment before Mickey lets go.

“Um,” he starts.

“I’m going to clean this shit up,” Ian says and gestures down at their mess of illegal substances. “You go ahead and get Yev, I’ll keep an eye out for Mandy.”

Mickey nods, face still burning. “Okay.” 

As Ian bends over to pick up one of the crushed beer cans, Mickey awkwardly turns towards the skylight. He feels bad, ditching Ian and leaving him to clean up the mess they both took part in making, but he also can feel pinpricks of anxiety spiking the back of his head as he thinks about Yevgeny, all alone in Ian’s twin bed.

Everything is moving way too fast, all the while Mickey’s brain is stuck in slow-motion. 

He steps through the skylight and steals one last look over his shoulder at the redhead. He’s standing now so only the top half of his body is visible from the roof as he calls back: “Thank you.”

Ian glances up from his bent position over the brown bag, brow raised in question. 

“For the joint,” Mickey explains hurriedly, wiping his sweaty palms over the front of his jeans. “And, um, you know,” he adds clunkily, not knowing how to transfer his thoughts to words, “everything.”

Instead of smiling or snorting in amusement, Ian just rolls the bag of weed up in his hands and takes one large step towards the skylight, bending over so he’s practically nose-to-nose with Mickey. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs, pressing one last closed-mouth kiss to the shorter man’s lips, then drawing back with the beginnings of his signature grin toying at his face. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, mutters “sap,” under his breath, then ducks the rest of the way into the attic. 

He doesn’t even mind that much when a dust cloud mushrooms in front of him as he moves into the crawl space; he’s too busy smiling like a fucking dope to take notice.

* * *

Svetlana, thankfully, is not dead.

Mickey finds her lounging in the Gallaghers’ living room with six or seven other people including Mandy, Lip, the guy with the ponytail, a black woman who he assumes is Veronica, and a few of the younger Gallagher siblings. They’re all slouched in different varieties of chairs and couch cushions, bottles upon bottles of alcohol stacked on the coffee table in the middle of them, most of them empty or close to it. 

When Mickey gets his sister’s attention, she sighs and plants a long, wet kiss on Lip’s temple before standing up and helping him rouse Svetlana from her drunken stupor. 

With Yevgeny still passed out in his arms, Mickey herds the two women out the front door while a chorus of slurred goodbyes ring after them. He determinedly doesn’t think about the fact that Ian’s voice isn’t among them; he hadn’t come down from upstairs, but Mickey could still hear the telltale movement of doors opening and closing on the second floor. He doesn’t think about it. It’s not like he’ll never see him again.

Plus, he already got a goodnight kiss. 

Once the trio (plus Yev) has made it outside, Svetlana demands that she gets to be the one to walk home with the baby’s stroller and use it as a stabilizer to prevent her from stumbling over her own feet. Mandy, significantly more sober, laughs at Svetlana genuinely; she’s got a very unsubtle and blissful post-coital look on her face that makes Mickey feel a little bit nauseous, but it explains her explicitly giddy mood. Mickey works very hard not to imagine what went down between her and Lip while he and Ian were fucking around on the rooftop. 

The three of them walk in a line down the sidewalk, Yev secured in his stroller, streetlamps casting a yellowish-orange glow over their heads. For a while, no one says anything, content to let the humid air take up all the room for banter. Svetlana mumbles something to herself every now and then, but most of it comes out Russian, so she’s ignored altogether, and otherwise amicable quiet rings out. 

They’ve made it almost all the way down the street before Mickey finally breaks the sodden silence with a question, one that’s been nagging him for hours but he keeps forgetting to ask. 

“Is Ian starting college this year?”

Mandy blinks around at him, nonplussed. “Hmm?”

“Ian,” Mickey repeats, hands in his pockets as he walks. “Is he going to college?”

“Oh.” Mandy looks away again. “Yeah, he is. He’s starting at UIC in the fall. Why?”

“I just-- I thought he was enlisting. In the army. Told me he’s wanted to since he was eleven.”

“He tried to,” Mandy says, brushing some hair out of her eyes, “but it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?” Mickey’s brow furrows. 

Mandy shrugs. “Medical reasons or some shit. Couldn’t meet all the qualifications.”

“Oh,” Mickey says, suddenly feeling uncomfortable for asking. He doesn’t press his sister for more details, not wanting to unintentionally invade Ian’s privacy. “What’s he studying?”

Mandy smiles at this, a given sign that she’s already formulated an opinion about the very topic. “Public health.”

This is not the answer Mickey expects. He blinks. “What, like, nursing and shit?” 

“Yeah, nursing and shit,” Mandy echoes, still smiling. “He told me that if he couldn’t save lives on a battlefield, he’d do it in a hospital, or something cheesy like that.”

Mickey feels his own mouth quirk up, an image of Ian in baby-blue scrubs holding a clipboard racing through his head briefly. “Sounds like something he’d say.”

“Right? That boy has got a fucking hero complex, I swear.” 

Mickey looks at his feet and feels blood rush to his cheeks as his mind immediately goes to the tattoo; to the two heroes holding up one heart. Two heroes forever inked on Ian’s skin. 

He’d chosen the design on a whim, back on the night of Ian’s birthday, and he hadn’t meant for it to be anything more than a cool piece of inkwork to look at. A tattoo for vanity’s sake. But now it’s making more sense why he was drawn to the design in the first place -- why it reminded him of Ian, even after only knowing the guy for a few minutes.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees out loud with his sister, lifting his eyes from the pavement and looking up at the night sky, at its twinkling stars and churning colors. 

He thinks of the way the light shines off red hair, the way the light changes in green eyes, the way the light highlights broad smiles.

“But who wouldn’t want to be a hero?” he asks.

When Mandy says nothing, he knows he has his answer.

The rest of the walk back to the house is spent in comfortable silence, only the sounds of Svetlana’s heels clicking unrhythmically against the sidewalk filling their ears. All the lights are off when they get home, and no one bothers to turn them back on as they head to their separate bedrooms. 

The room that used to belong to Terry has been converted into a space for Yevgeny, not quite fully furnished, but good enough for him to sleep in, all things considered. Mickey doesn’t bother changing the little boy out of his day clothes, tucking him into the tiny railed bed in the corner without waking him then planting a small kiss on his forehead before closing the door. 

Svetlana doesn't quite make it to her and Mickey’s bed; when Mickey reemerges from Yev’s room, he finds her passed out face-down on the couch, heels still strapped on. Mickey sighs inwardly, then slips them off for her and leaves them on the floor next to her sleeping figure before padding off to his own room. 

He strips sleepily down to his boxers then collapses on his unmade bed with a hefty sigh. The weight of the night blankets over him, and his fingers and toes are still numb from all the weed and beer he consumed earlier. He doesn’t pull the sheets over himself; it’s too hot to even think about sleeping with a blanket, and his skin is already beaded with little droplets of sweat from the walk home, so he simply rolls onto his side and lets his eyes slide shut. 

He’s cusping on the very brink of euphoric unconsciousness when a familiar electronic chirp cuts through the still night, causing Mickey to grunt in annoyance and lift his head from its snug place on his pillow. He grabs his phone indignantly from his nightstand, squinting at the blue light of the screen as he turns it on to see who the fuck decided to text him this late.

His annoyance immediately melts into something much more maudlin as he recognizes the number. He still hasn’t attached any identifying contact info to it, but he knows immediately that it’s Ian based on the familiarity of the number pattern and the fact that he’s the only person Mickey knows who texts in all lower-case

It’s a short message: _"u free tmrw? i had fun :)"_

Nevertheless, the simplicity of it doesn’t stop Mickey’s stomach from fluttering with excitement. He allows himself to smile goofily at the stupid emoticon, knowing that he’s safe to do so without anyone making fun of him because he’s the only one in the room. 

_"You bet, carrot top,"_ Mickey types, then sends it with a satisfying exhale. 

Instead of waiting for a reply, he turns the ringer off and sets the phone back down on his nightstand, closing his eyes again and dragging one hand through his hair. 

Fuck Ian Gallagher for making him smitten as a fucking teenage girl. The fucking prick. 

When Mickey finally falls asleep, flat on his back with one arm cushioning his head and the other one hanging off the side, he only dreams of three things:

Two heroes, and one heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of you interested in seeing the exact design inspo i used for ian's tattoo , you can find that [here](https://majestictattoonyc.com/keith-haring-tattoo/). original artwork [here](https://www.dlf.pt/png/big/5/58089_keith-haring-png.jpg).
> 
> i was mostly inspired to use this work of art instead of a cliche tattoo design because the subject matters keith haring deals with are super aligned with what the show deals with in terms of working class life in america, gay rights, etc etc, not to mention that he has a pretty large presence in chicago. i could honestly wax poetic about that man for hours, but i'll refrain myself :)
> 
> if any of you want know more about why i chose this specific piece of art, don't be afraid to ask!
> 
> thanks for sticking around this far, loves <3


	4. part iv: epilogue

**_Six Months Later_ **

Ian Gallagher is not a morning person.

Peppy spirit and plentiful stockpile of kinetic energy aside, Ian Gallagher is not, nor will ever be, a morning person. 

Growing up under Frank and Monica’s roof had guaranteed him a childhood chock-full of restless nights; even when he was small he was constantly on edge, wondering when his parents would come clambering back home from their day of drinking and using, wondering if the police would be on their tail, or if they’d even bother to come home at all. 

He grew up learning to sleep with one eye open; not literally, of course, but rather managing to remain partially-conscious of his environment whenever he fell asleep. He trained his body to wake up to the sound of the front door opening, the sound of nearby sirens, the sound of yelling or banging coming from within the house.

Some nights, he didn’t sleep at all. 

But as he got older, the anxiety that came with the arrival of the moon slowly began to abate. By the time he entered middle school, he was used to the guttural shouts of his father that came during the night, and he no longer paid any mind to the sirens that constantly rang through the neighborhood. They were a common occurrence; white noise, if nothing more.

Now, as a bushy-tailed college freshman, Ian can sleep through just about anything. 

Except for his boyfriend. He can’t sleep through that -- no matter how many times he tries. 

This morning is no different. He feels Mickey before he hears him, cold fingers ghosting up his side, following the dip of his waist all the way up to the slope of his neck. He feels the gentle, warm press of lips against his shoulder blade, the curve of his spine, the back of his bicep, and a shiver wriggles up his neck. 

“Wake the fuck up, sleepyhead.”

The voice sounds far away -- so far from Ian’s comfortable, plush position as he lays on his stomach, one arm bent underneath his pillow, the other sprawled out to his side carelessly -- so he ignores it, content to stay nestled under his weighted comforter.

“Hey,” the voice comes again, followed by a quick nip on the shoulder and a squeeze of fingers into Ian’s hip. “Wakey wakey, dipshit.” 

Ian stirs ever-so-slightly, keeping his eyes shut as he burrows his face further into his pillow and murmurs, “Ten more minutes.”

The fingers squeeze harder into his skin, so he reaches an arm back and half-heartedly swats at the perpetrator. 

“Ian,” the voice coos, low and throaty, and it sounds much closer to Ian’s ear this time. Its proximity is confirmed when a lazy, verbose, open-mouthed kiss is pressed into the space right behind his earlobe.

Ian sighs, reveling in the sweet, tingling sensation of lips against his skin before he says, muffled, “ ‘m sleeping, Mick.”

In a matter of seconds, Ian is being violently flipped onto his back by a pair of sturdy hands, and before he knows it his eyes are wrenching open to be met with a pair of deep, chilly blue irises that he knows all too well. 

Ian whines and squints against the glaring white light of the morning as his boyfriend shifts on top of him, situating himself on Ian’s thighs while the comforter drapes over his shoulders.

“Good morning, douchebag.” Mickey’s voice is grated with sleep as he reaches out and drags his hand through Ian’s hair, combing away the rebellious strands that poke out over his forehead.

Ian grunts lethargically, rubbing the bridge of his nose to wipe away excess sleep from the corners of his eyes. “D’you get off on calling me names or something?”

“Mm,” Mickey hums, hand sliding from Ian’s hair and trailing down to his neck, where he presses a thumb into the muscle that slopes between his shoulder and nape. “You know exactly what gets me off.”

Ian’s too tired to roll his eyes, but the urge passes. “Asshole,” he mumbles before grabbing Mickey’s wrist and pulling his hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against the palm of his boyfriend’s hand then turning it over and doing the same to his knuckles.

Mickey takes the opportunity to flick him in the nose. “You’re mean in the morning.”

Ian drops his hand and attempts to shoot him a withering look, but it comes off lazier than intended. “You’re mean all the time.”

“Touché.”

Both of Mickey’s hands curl around Ian’s neck, tugging him up just enough so he can press his mouth to Ian’s comfortably. Ian makes an appreciative noise when he meets Mickey in the middle, lips parted and mouth dry with morning residue. They don’t go very far, keeping the kiss simple and controlled, but it warms Ian’s skin nevertheless.

“You taste bad,” Mickey comments when they eventually break apart, fingers cradling the cut of Ian’s jawline.

“That’s what you get for waking me up,” the redhead replies, relaxing back into the bed and stretching his arms above his head, back arching like a cat and hipbones rocking up against Mickey.

Mickey watches him from atop his thighs, eyes raking down over his snug tank top as he finishes stretching and his back hits the mattress. Ian matches his gaze with an even smile, settling his hands on top of Mickey’s sweatpant-clad legs and pulling him closer. Mickey abides, bending over the younger man and placing his own hands on either side of Ian’s head. 

He’s close enough now for Ian to properly see his mussed up hair and pinkish crease marks printed into his cheeks, an explicit result of a good night’s sleep. His eyes are light and clear like glass as they flit over Ian’s own features, drinking him in the same way Ian is, a tiny smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. He looks beautiful.

“Hi,” Ian says cordially as if they didn’t just have an entire conversation. 

“Hi,” Mickey replies, face breaking into the private smile he reserves just for Ian, small, tender, and bashful.

“You been awake long?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Only a few minutes. Mandy’s making french toast, though. You want in?”

“Mmm,” Ian’s hands glide up the other man’s legs, then come to grip his hips tightly. “Can it wait for a bit?” He tips his head up to nibble playfully at Mickey’s nose.

To Ian’s surprise and immediate disappointment, Mickey draws back. 

“No can do, Firecrotch,” he says, back straightening, only sounding the slightest bit regretful. “You’ll be late for your first day back if you don’t get up soon.”

Ian pouts. “I can be quick.”

Mickey’s eyes narrow. “That an insult?”

“Constructive criticism.”

Mickey swats at him, then rolls off his legs and bounces against the mattress. “Fuck you, too. I’m getting breakfast.”

“Tease,” Ian whines.

Mickey ignores him and pushes off the bed, bare, pale back dappled with the early light slanting in through the gaps of the curtains. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips as he bends over to grab a t-shirt off the floor, refusing to acknowledge the way Ian stares after him with a mixture of annoyance and longing.

Finally, after tugging the shirt (which definitely belongs to Ian) over his head, Mickey glances over his shoulder at the other boy’s sprawled figure. 

“Your train to campus leaves in thirty minutes,” he warns, head tilting towards the digital clock on the nightstand next to Ian’s head. 

Ian says nothing, ignoring the clock and watching with sleepy indifference as the shorter boy circles their bed, puts his hand on the doorknob, then seems to think twice and doubles back. 

“Be ready in ten and I can walk you to the station,” he mutters with a hint of endearment, leaning over to ruffle Ian’s hair and peck him on the forehead before opening the door and plodding out into the hallway.

Ian stares at his retreating back until he rounds the corner into the kitchen, leaving the redhead all alone in his cramped, cluttered bedroom, grey light spilling like liquid over the floorboards and beige sheets. Ian lets himself lay there for another five minutes, comforter pulled up to his chin and tangled in his legs, before finally finding the strength to haul himself up and stumble to the bathroom to brush the bitter taste from his teeth. 

After washing his face briefly with one of Mandy’s numerous skincare products and slipping on a semi-clean pair of flannel pajama pants over his boxers, he trudges into the kitchen to find his best friend and his boyfriend bickering with each other over a nearly-empty carton of milk.

“Morning,” he grumbles, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand.

“Hey!” Mandy immediately perks up at the sight of him, and she bounces up from her chair to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek, ignoring the death stare that Mickey aims at her as she does so. 

“Coffee and toast are next to the stove if you're hungry.”

“Thanks,” he provides a small, albeit warm smile in her direction, then pads towards the kitchen counter and grabs an unused mug from the drying rack next to the sink. 

“You excited for your first day back?” Mandy’s voice comes from somewhere near the fridge. 

Ian shrugs as he picks up the lukewarm coffee pot. “Not particularly.”

“What, why not?”

Ian pours his cup to the near brim, stomach and brain simultaneously aching for a boost of caffeine. “I’ve got an anatomy lecture with Lishman first thing, that’s why.”

“Is he that geriatric meathead professor who tried to hit on you last semester?” Mickey asks gruffly around a bite of french toast.

Ian takes a long sip of coffee, still facing the counter. “The one and only.”

“Aren’t you allowed to report that shit?” Mandy asks, coming to lean her back against the counter so she’s partially facing Ian. “Sexual harassment or whatever?”

“Yeah, but then he’d be at risk of getting fired,” Ian replies, plucking a piece of toast from the platter on top of the stove and sticking it between his teeth before plopping down in the seat across from Mickey at the kitchen table.

One of Mickey’s eyebrows goes up. “So?”

Ian tears off a bite of toast then washes it down with another sip of coffee. “So, I don’t want him to get fired,” he says with his mouth full. “He gives me good grades.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he wants your dick in his mouth.” Mickey kicks him underneath the table, a callous look on his face.

Ian kicks him back. “Maybe I should introduce you two since you have so much in common.”

“Fuck you!”

Ian swallows then flashes his teeth. “What time?”

Mandy makes a gagging sound from her place at the counter, and her face is scrunched in disgust when Ian looks over at her. 

“Talk about your sex life somewhere else, shitheads,” she sniffs, turning to drop her mug in the sink and wiping her hands on her t-shirt. “I’m gonna head. Can one of you stop by the store to get more milk at some point today?”

“Why can’t you do it?” Mickey stands up and downs the last of his coffee. 

“I told you already, I’m meeting Iggy and Joey for dinner after my shift. Ig wants to show us the new place he got with his girlfriend and it’ll take a few hours.”

“Oh,” Mickey grunts, obviously not remembering whatever previous conversation he’d had with Mandy. Ian holds back a smile. “Tell Joey he owes me forty bucks.”

“What for?”

“Fuck if I remember,” Mickey snorts. “Still, douchebag’s gotta pay his dues.”

Mandy rolls her eyes. “Whatever, I’m leaving.” Before she dithers out of the kitchen, she pauses behind Ian’s chair and ruffles his hair, similar to how Mickey did not five minutes earlier. “Good luck with your meathead professor.”

Ian grunts blearily in response, mouth too full of egg and toast to form any words. 

The front door closes behind her a minute later, leaving the house quiet as Ian chews on his breakfast and Mickey watches him with a neutral expression. 

“If you’re not gonna report him, you at least want me to break out the brass knuckles?” Mickey asks far too casually, putting his hands on the back of his chair and leaning forward. “I could pretend to be a student, show up during his office hours and knock him around a little until he gets the picture.”

“No,” Ian glares at him, swallowing his mouthful, “you’re not beating up my professor.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because!” Ian bites off the rest of his sentence, knowing that rationale won’t do him any good in swaying Mickey. 

Mickey’s eyebrows stay raised. “Because why?”

“Because it’s not a big deal. Ian pushes out of his chair, grabbing his empty plate and mug and returning to the counter to wash them off. He turns on the faucet and holds his plate under, keeping his back to his boyfriend.

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice drops to something softer, and Ian can sense him shuffling closer. “You’re not some kinda fag for sale, alright? I’m not letting some wrinkled old closet case get away with propositioning just you so you can get a good grade.”

Ian knows this is Mickey’s way of saying, _I care about you, I respect you, you deserve better_ , and all the other things Mickey’s too afraid to say out loud. 

Ian never pushes him to say anything. He knows how hard it can be, sometimes, to show affection when you don’t quite know how. To tell someone what they mean to you. What you’re willing to do to keep them safe, keep them happy. 

He drops his mug in the sink and turns the faucet off. “I know,” he says gently, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “But I can deal with it, Mick.”

Before he gets a chance to turn around and look at his boyfriend in the face, a pair of strong arms close around his midsection and sweep him into an embrace. Ian freezes, then lets himself relax as Mickey’s chin tucks into the crook of his neck. He’s snug and sturdy, and he smells faintly of the seasonal peppermint soap that Mandy bought in the heat of Christmas spirit.

“You’re mine,” he says into Ian’s throat, soft yet vehement. “And if he bothers you anymore--”

“I know,” Ian cuts him off, touching his forearms in reassurance and tilting his head closer. “I’ll come to you. I know.”

“Good.” 

Before pulling away entirely, Mickey’s arms squeeze tighter and his chin lifts from Ian’s shoulder to press a long kiss into the skin right between his shoulder blades.

Ian doesn’t need to guess to know that he’s kissing the tattoo -- it’s Ian’s biggest pressure point.

As Mickey’s lips leave his skin, Ian turns around in the embrace and catches them again with his mouth, forceful and poignant. Mickey answers him easily, tilting his head for better access and digging his fingers into the back of Ian’s neck. He crowds Ian against the counter, propping himself between the redhead’s legs and keeping his grip fervent. 

They stay in the kitchen for what feels like hours, holding onto each other, sliding their fingers through each other’s hair, getting lost without wandering. They’ve come a long way since that night at the tattoo parlor on Ian’s eighteenth birthday; a lot longer than Ian initially expected, not that he’s complaining. Mickey, apparently, has a knack for making things permanent. 

When they finally break apart, Mickey gives him a playful little push so his lower back knocks into the countertop. “Now go get dressed, freshie. I refuse to be the reason you’re late today.” 

Ian rolls his eyes at the word ‘freshie’ and pushes back before giving in and returning to the bedroom in search of a clean pair of jeans. 

He finds a pair shoved in the very back of the drawer he overtook back when their relationship first got serious and Ian was spending nearly every night at the Milkovich house. Mickey was annoyed at first when he had to relocate his strangely large collection of socks to a different drawer, but Ian knew he only went through with it because he was happy to have Ian around. 

(Ian started sleeping over around the same time Svetlana decided to move out and get her own apartment closer to the studio, so Mickey mentioned to Ian that he was getting extra-lonely at night. 

Ian never really asks why he and Svet shared a bed when she lived here; he assumes it was a habit they’d formed during the intervals of time Mickey’s father was released from prison, in lieu of keeping up the ridiculous marriage charade he’d orchestrated. 

But Ian never asks -- Mickey and Svetlana’s relationship is a touchy subject, tainted with a shadow of a backstory that Ian only knows bits and pieces of. It doesn’t bother him like it should; Mickey will tell him when he’s ready. Ian’s not going to force him to do anything.)

The jeans he pulls out clearly haven’t been worn in a very long time, because they’re wrinkled and stiff when Ian tugs them on, but he goes with them anyways. Then, instead of grabbing one of his own shirts to layer over his tank top, he opens another drawer and pulls out Mickey’s favorite salt-and-pepper colored quarter-zip sweater and wriggles his way into it, zipping the neck up halfway and burrowing into the smoky, worn smell. 

By the time he manages to pull his winter coat over the sweater and lace up his boots, Mickey is shouting at him from the living room to “hurry the fuck up, fuckwad.” 

The walk to the train station is short in distance, but it feels a whole lot longer with the freezing cold wind pushing against them and forcing them to pull their hats low on their foreheads and keep their hands shoved in their pockets. 

They don’t talk much, too cold to subject their purple lips to the frisky air more than necessary. Ian stays close to Mickey, huddled next to him so their shoulders bump every few seconds, but he doesn’t link their arms or lace their fingers together because he knows Mickey will just grumble and start muttering things like “sap” under his breath. 

His eyes are trained on the ground when a sudden gust of cold air crashes into them only a few yards away from the station, forcing them to stumble together and batten down their hatches with irritated grunts. 

Mickey pulls his beanie all the way down over his ears and gripes, “I shouldn’t have come with you, my dick is going to get frostbite. That’s bad for both of us.”

Ian just laughs at him and buries his hands deeper into the pockets of his tight jeans, but pauses when he feels his fingers brush something papery and crumpled at the very bottom of the fabric. He pulls it out curiously as they dart across a mulch-covered street towards the entrance to the above-ground station. The paper is too thick to be a receipt, so he unfolds it warily while keeping one eye on the sidewalk in front of him, making sure he doesn’t run into any other harried commuters. 

His feet slow when he finishes unfolding, eyes falling across the loopy words “ _Bridgeport Tattoo and Piercing Studio_ ” that are printed across the front. His mouth dips into a small frown, wondering why he has one of Mickey’s parlor’s business cards shoved in the pocket of his jeans, but Mickey’s voice briefly pulls his attention away.

“I almost forgot,” he starts as they step onto the crowded staircase that leads up to the station, “Can you pick up Yevgeny from Svet’s apartment when you finish your 2 o’clock class? She’s got a bunch of new furniture being delivered in the afternoon and she doesn’t want him getting in the way of the movers.” 

“Of course,” Ian replies as they ascend, elbows knocking together clunkily. “You want me to take him to the parlor?”

“If you want to hang out with me tonight, then yes.” Mickey shoots him a wry smile. “We can stop by Sizzler’s for dinner since Mandy won't be home to stop us.”

They reach the top of the stairs. “Sounds like a date,” Ian says over the echoing chatter of the dozens of commuters pooling onto the loading platform.

“Cool.” Mickey’s smile boils into a grin as he grabs Ian’s arm and tugs him off to the side of the stairs so they aren’t blocking anyone. Ian still has the business card in his hand, but he simply closes his fingers over it as Mickey drags him away from the row of turnstiles that lead deeper onto the platform.

“My train is gonna get here any minute,” he points out, jerking his head up to the electronic timetable bolted onto the wall.

“I know, just,” Mickey pauses, turning to face Ian, “give me a second.” 

His eyes stand out against the grey, snowy backdrop, and his cheeks are flushed red with the cold. Ian realizes very quickly what he’s trying to do, crowding Ian against the concrete wall of the station and tipping his head up. 

Before Ian can lean down and meet him in the middle, Mickey says: “You’ll text me when your lecture’s finished? So I know Lishman hasn’t eaten you whole or anything?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Yes, mom.”

Mickey shoves him, but the action is soon juxtaposed as he pops up on his tiptoes and kisses Ian goodbye, holding him in place with a hand on his neck. It’s sweet, chaste, and a little startling; Mickey’s not really one for PDA. But Ian’s not complaining.

“Good,” Mickey grumbles when they part, somehow managing to keep a grumpy look plastered onto his face even with swollen pink lips and dilated pupils.

Ian’s eyes crinkle and he ducks in for one last peck, letting Mickey’s lips warm him up in the freezing temperature. The sound of a train screeching against the metal tracks breaks them apart, and Mickey nods for him to go. 

“Go on,” he says, exhaling noisily, nudging Ian back towards the turnstiles. “Go save some lives, doc.” 

Ian smirks and squeezes his hands one last time before turning away. “Sap.”

Mickey just shoves at him again, cheeks red, and Ian stumbles forward to sink into the line of commuters milling towards the row of turnstiles. Once he’s secured a spot in the flow of people, he glances back over his shoulder to blow a cheesy kiss at Mickey, who is standing and watching him be swept away with a glint in his eye. 

He flips Ian off right as the redhead is jostled forward towards the revolving gates, clumsily scanning his card and pushing against the frosty metal bars until he is spit out on the other side of the platform. 

The train’s doors are seconds away from sliding closed, so Ian uses his long legs to his advantage to weave through the ocean of people towards the vehicle, stumbling over the threshold right as a tinny ding emits through the passenger car and the metal doors slide shut.

There are, predictably, no seats available, so Ian finds himself squeezing into a corner next to a window and grabbing on to one of the metal support beams that stick out from the seats. Before the train lurches to a start, he opens up his fist and unfolds the crumpled business card again, eyes flitting over the cursive logo on the front.

His heart stutters when he flips the card over in his hands; it’s just what he expected. 

A phone number, written in scrappy black handwriting, and the words _“just in case”_ scrawled beneath like an afterthought. 

Just in case. 

Ian looks up through the window of the train just as it begins to move away from the station, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can see the back of Mickey’s coat retreating into the depths of the crowd as the platform gets smaller and smaller.

His Mickey. 

He looks back down at the card, folds it in half gently, tucks it back into his pocket, and reminds himself to never lose track of it ever again. 

You know; just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks!!
> 
> first, i'd like to thank you for sticking around to the end. you're a trooper, for real. and thank you endlessly to all of you who've left comments & kudos -- your words are so kind and they mean everything to me!
> 
> second, i just wanna say that i've purposefully left some things open-ended because i still have a lot more exploring to do w/ this universe. i also (clearly) left out all the buildup to ian & mick's relationship because i didn't want to drag this fic out more than it needed to be, but i'm thinking about writing a couple one-shots to fill in the blanks if people are interested. if not, i might just leave this timeline to it's own devices and your imagination :)
> 
> once again, thank you so much for reading, and i hope you're all staying safe and healthy.
> 
> come harass me on [tumblr](https://dynazty.tumblr.com/)! i promise i don't bite :) <3
> 
> \- naz <3


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